Mad Friends
by Lauralot
Summary: Joker wasn't the only one Harleen Quinzel treated. The story of her fall to darkness through the eyes of her patient and friend, Jonathan Crane. Rated M to be safe.
1. Introductions

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Right, this is my first attempt at a fanfic since some sad things written when I was young that I don't care to talk about. I got the idea from the beginning of an episode of _Batman: The Animated Series, _"Harley's Holiday," where there's a brief scene that shows Harley and Scarecrow are friends. I wondered how they got to know each other, and this is the result. It's set in the Nolanverse. So give me your thoughts on it, please!

* * *

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was just another nightmare, but that never lessened the terror he felt. Shaking, he gasped as the Batman grabbed hold of him, forcing the mask off his face, making him breathe the toxin. At first all he felt was overwhelming anger—how dare this costumed freak use his own creation against him? But it only seemed to take a second for him to feel the effects; the anger ebbing away to a rush of horror. The room started to shake around him, the Batman's face morphing from the vague dark blur he saw without his glasses to that of a demon. His throat, already tight from the hand around it, seemed to close all the way, making him gasp for breath. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out every sound but the bat-demon's growl. He was trembling all over, and the darkness that had always lurked in the back of his mind, near the place that told him he was dreaming, seemed to sense his weakness and grow. He tried to fight it back but the bat made it impossible, shaking him while bellowing questions into his face, and the darkness started to overwhelm him-

"Wake up!"

"Eh?" Jonathan Crane's eyes sprang open, blinking rapidly to clear the fog of sleep. His heart was still pounding, and he could feel the damp patches sweat had made on his clothing. For a moment the sight of his cell was almost comforting—at least, what he could see of it, anything close up was unrecognizable when his glasses were off. Arkham, miserable as it was, was still better than the nightmares he'd been having ever since that night when the Batman had robbed him of his sanity. The drugs they gave him here kept the darkness in check, but they didn't stop the dreams.

The moment of comfort ended abruptly as Crane remembered just what had woken him. The cell was dark, so the voice he'd heard couldn't have been an orderly chiding him for sleeping in late. A visitor wouldn't be permitted in the middle of the night, not that he would have any if the time were reasonable. That left an intruder. A fresh wave of chills went through his body and he bolted up, losing his balance. He felt himself falling backwards off the bed, the ceiling rushing through his view and merging with the wall as arms shot out, grabbing Jonathan in a bear hug and pulling him back on to the bed. "Gotcha!"

"What…who…" he stammered, trying to make out the intruder's face. It was hopeless. The most he could get was a pale figure with longish hair, and in the darkness he couldn't even make out colors. He tried pulling back, but arms around him were wrapped too tightly. His heart hammered against his ribs. He still had scars from that night when the League of Shadows had released his toxin in the Narrows, when he'd run into a few of his old patients who were happy to treat him how they'd been treated. Had an inmate come to return the favor again? And why now, nearly two and a half years later? He tried to keep his voice steady. "What are you doing?"

"Keepin' ya from falling off the bed, scaredy cat. What were you dreaming about, a lit match?" The voice sounded nasal, amused, and Jonathan was sure he'd heard it before, though he couldn't place where.

"What?" Despite his attempts to keep his emotions in check, he could hear the confusion in his reply. Matches? What would be frightening about matches? And where had he heard that voice?

He heard a sigh. "Wizard of Oz? Ya know, for a doctor, you're pretty slow." The speaker relaxed his grip, and Crane pulled back as far as he could. Whoever the intruder was, his breath was less than pleasant. Was this one of his former experiments? That would explain his recognizing the voice, but he couldn't remember any patients sounding like this. Their voices had all been shaking and broken, at least when he'd finished with them, whereas this voice practically secreted confidence. Where had he heard it, then?

"Who are you?"

Another sigh. He could make out a hand coming towards his face, something in it, and flinched again, nearly sliding off the bed a second time. A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back up. "Lighten up, will ya? I'm not gonna hurt ya." The object slid onto his face, and as Crane realized his glasses were being put on him, the face before him snapped into focus.

_Shit._

The Joker grinned at him. Jonathan remembered where he'd heard that voice now; the hostage tapes that had aired on the news last year. He'd watched them in the institution's rec room. Usually the orderlies tried to keep the inmates from watching the more disturbing things on television, worried they might get ideas, but they'd been as transfixed as he was. The orderlies from fear, himself from admiration. He recalled thinking the clown was brilliant, giggling as he terrorized the Batman impersonator into a cowering, shaking mess. He'd been stunned as he watched, hanging onto his every word as imposter dissolved into tears and the Joker turned the camera to his painted, scarred face.

The make up was gone now, but the scars were still there, twisted reminders that the clown could and would cheerfully do the same-or worse-to anyone who annoyed him. Or, depending on his mood, anyone at all. Crane tried to stay calm; tried to ignore the blood pounding in his ears as he stared. This was the first time since that news broadcast that Jonathan had seen him; incompetent as Arkham's doctors were, they knew better than to let the Joker near other patients. "How did you get in here?"

"What, like it's hard?" The Joker smirked. "We've both broken out enough times to know Arkham's a revolving door."

That was true. In the year and a half since the Joker had first been committed, he'd broken out more than a few times. So had most of the new "super-criminals," that had popped up as of late, like Nigma and Isley, and Crane himself. Despite all the money the Wayne Foundation kept donating to fortify the institution's security, breaking out remained little harder than breathing. Crane had never tried breaking into another patient's cell, but it couldn't be very difficult. "What do you want, then?"

Still smiling, the Joker didn't answer. He reached a hand out-Jonathan forced himself not to flinch-and ran it down Crane's face, tracing the burn scars from where Rachel Dawes had zapped him with her tazer in the Narrows. "Where'dya get those scars?"

"I asked you a question." Crane turned his head, but his captor's hand remained in place. What is this clown doing here? From somewhere deep in the back of his head, the darkness woke up from under the haze of drugs that kept it down. Jonathan could almost hear it, muttering for control, wanting to take over and take down this threat.

"Oh, that's nice," the Joker answered, digging his fingernails into Crane's face. Jonathan winced, less from pain than from the thought of the dirt under those nails. "I've gotta be up to something? I can't just say hello to a fellow patient?"

Crane arched a brow. "You left your cell in the middle of the night, snuck past the guards, and broke into my cell to say hello? I'm flattered."

"Fine. I'll level with ya, doc." The Joker's tone was light enough, but his nails were still cutting into Jonathan's face, and his free arm and body pinning the doctor to the bed. Crane tried to keep his face impassive, but he was sure Joker could feel his pounding heartbeat. "See, there's this girl here I've got my eye on. Blonde, curvy, gullible, my kinda woman."

"And what, you want me to play matchmaker?" I'm dead. Crane swallowed hard, the movement of his cheek making the scrapes sting more. Now he's just fucking with me. I'm going to die. The murmurings of the darkness grew louder, and he struggled to keep himself under control. This clown had beaten Batman into submission at least once, if the news was to be believed. He couldn't match that strength, but the desire to try was growing.

"In a manner of speaking, yeah. It's the new shrink, Harleen Quinzel. Know her?"

"Yes, I—what?" His eyes widened. He knew of Harleen Quinzel, who'd started after his incarceration. He'd never actually met her, as the new doctors weren't allowed near the most dangerous patients for at least a year, but he'd seen her. It was customary to lead beginners through this ward on their first day, to scare them out of trying to get in over their heads with one of the famous inmates.

Quinzel had come through months ago. Crane barely remembered her, save for the vague mental image of a blonde twenty-something glancing in his window. And suddenly the Joker had an interest in her? Crane's thoughts raced, trying to figure out what that could mean and where he fit into it.

"I hate to break it to you," he said finally, when he'd regained enough of his wits to speak. "But I'm not the administrator anymore. I don't know this girl, and I certainly can't introduce you."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong, doc." The Joker pulled his fingers back from Crane's face, the cuts burning more fiercely than ever. He felt a wetness on his cheek that could only be blood, and the Joker wiped it away, smirking. "Ya just don't know her yet. I've read your file. You're meetin' her in two days."

That was the first Crane had heard about it, but it wasn't impossible. The psychiatrists here didn't share much information with their patients, even the rather important bits like switching doctors. And what reason would the Joker have to lie about something like that? If it wasn't true, it's not as if he wouldn't find out soon. "And?"

"And you're not gonna to scare her off." His voice was cheerful as always, but his grip tightened. Crane tried not to wince. "You're gonna answer her questions, and give her whatever information she wants. You're gonna be the best patient she's ever had, or I'll wanna know why not. Got it?" He gave a vicious squeeze on the last word, and Crane couldn't help but gasp at the pain sent shooting through his ribs.

"Got it," he muttered, barely able to hear himself over the now screaming need in his head. There was nothing he would have liked more at that moment than to beat this freak to near death, leave him cowering in the corner, crying from terror. But there was no way that would happen.

"Good boy." The Joker relaxed his grip, one hand reaching back up to wipe the blood from Crane's face again.

"Can I ask you a question now?" He knew it was a long shot. That there was no way the Joker would be stupid enough to reveal his plan to him. That sort of thing only happened in cartoons. But still, if Crane got even the slightest hint what the Joker was up to, that could give him an advantage. Certainly it would be better than being this clown's pawn in a game he didn't know the point of.

"Fire away."

"Why Quinzel? Or rather, why me? What do my sessions with this doctor mean to you?"

The Joker lifted his hand again. His fingertips were lightly coated in blood, which looked almost black in the dim light. He raised his hand to his mouth for a moment, sucking the blood off the way a child might suck off melted ice cream, then removed his hand, and licked his lips before answering. "Maybe I just want ya to get better, scaredy cat. Ever think of that?"

"No," Crane said, knowing it was dangerous to push it, but unable to resist. "And I'm not stupid enough to think that's why."

"Ah." Joker dipped his fingers in the blood again, this time spreading it across his scars and lips like the lipstick. "But you're stupid enough to question me. And that's gonna cost ya."

Before Crane could react, the Joker was sitting on top of him, Jonathan's left arm held tightly in his grasp. The clown's hands twisted and Crane's skin burned. "Lemme make this perfectly clear, Jonny." Joker smirked, giving Crane a view of his bleeding, probably scurvy-ridden gums. He was barely audible over the darkness. "When I tell ya to do something, ya do it, no questions asked. Got it?"

"Yes," Crane hissed, teeth clenched. He tried not to cry out as pain increased, only partially succeeding. Fight back! Make him scream! That part of his mind urged him, but to try it would be suicide.

"Good." The Joker loosened his grip, and Crane breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, and doc? Just to make sure ya don't forget, here's a reminder!"

Jonathan barely had time to register that the clown's hands were back on him before he felt a sickening crack in the bones of his left forearm. He heard the darkness shouting at him, enraged that he hadn't let it take control, heard himself scream as the Joker laughed and let him go, felt himself falling off the bed, incredible pain shooting up his as went he landed, and then everything went black.

* * *

I'll try to get the next chapter up soon. Let me know what you think!


	2. First Session

AN: Still don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. If I did, I'd have better things to do with them than write fan fiction.

* * *

He came to in the infirmary ward, a doctor setting his arm. Crane wasn't sure if the pain alone had woken him, but it had certainly helped. _Why the hell didn't they give me morphine before they tried that?_ he wondered, biting his lips bloody to keep from crying out. _It's not as if unconsciousness stops pain receptors from firing._

_They didn't care._ He answered himself, the voice coming from near that dark spot in the back of his head. _They couldn't care less how the patients feel, as long as they're still living and the doctors are still in control. _It was true. Jonathan had never worried about inflicting harm on his charges back when he was administrator. He'd relished it, actually. The threat of pain caused fear and their fear gave him power.

Being on the receiving end of the power trip though, that just sucked.

He'd swallowed enough blood to induce nausea by the time the cast was on his arm. And that was when the nurse chose to show up with the morphine. It would have been funny, Crane supposed, if it had been someone else. "Here you go, dear," she said, sticking him just above the cast. He could barely feel the sting of the needle, over the pounding ache below it.

"About time," he muttered, wondering how long it took to start working. He wasn't sure if the nurse had heard him or not, but she turned to face him. Her brows furrowed as she touched a gloved hand to Jonathan's lips, surely Joker red by now.

"Did you bite yourself?"

What kind of a question was that? As if he'd started bleeding spontaneously in the middle of being tortured. "No, it happened by itself." His voice didn't sound as sharp as he thought it would be, and the agony in his arm had lessened slightly. The drugs must be working. _Thank God_.

The nurse sighed. "I thought they should have drugged you before they set the bone. I'll get you a tissue, dear." She walked away, Crane's view of her retreating back blurring as if he'd taken his glasses off. By the time she came back with the Kleenex, he was out.

* * *

"Dr. Crane?"

He wasn't quite asleep anymore, and he didn't think he had been for awhile, though it was hard to tell. He'd been lying in a drug haze for at least an hour, somewhere between sleep and full consciousness. Morphine induced? Definitely, but it was comfortable. The first time he could remember that he hadn't dreamed about the Batman, and now here was this voice, ruining it.

"Dr. Crane?"

Jonathan tried for a "piss off," but that seemed like it would take too much energy, so he settled for "eh," hoping it conveyed how very much he did not care to interact with this person. As much as one syllable could convey that.

"Dr. Crane? My name is Harleen Quinzel."

His eyes shot open, snapping shut almost as fast. He blinked a few times against the harsh daylight in the ward, then sat up, looking to his companion. What was so special about this woman that drew the Joker's interest? All he saw was a vague blur.

Oh. _Well, the glasses would help, _Crane chided himself as he fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table, sliding them on somewhat awkwardly without the use of his left hand. He turned back to her. She was twenty-something, as he'd thought, with blond hair pulled back and glasses. Attractive, but not spectacularly so. And he didn't think attraction mattered to the Joker in the first place. So what made her so important?

"How long have I been in here?" he asked. He vaguely remembered waking up briefly just to be doped again, but the ward's clock was out of view and he couldn't see the sun's position through the windows.

"This is your second day. You slept through all of yesterday. It's about one now."

Jonathan blinked. "They kept me two days for a broken arm?"

"For observation. You were having night terrors while you were out."

_Shit._ So the drugs didn't stop the nightmares, though they did keep him from remembering. It was bad enough that he was still so frightened by a costumed vigilante, but to know that he'd humiliated himself by having screaming fits in front of the doctors was insult to injury.

He glanced back at Quinzel. Behind her glasses, her eyes were as wide and blue as his own, furtively scanning his face, no doubt taking in the blush he could feel there. Lovely. So now not only did she know he was having nightmares, but also that her knowledge of it upset him. He hated for the psychiatrists to have anything resembling personal information about him; just a crack in the armor for them to dig their nails in and rip apart. _God, if she asks me about it I might have to kill her._ He couldn't of course, he didn't feel like spending months in solitary, and the cast on his arm was deterrent enough, imagining how the Joker would react to him killing this woman. Still, the urge to let his dark side take over was growing.

"Were you dreaming about the Joker?" she asked softly.

"Huh?" He blinked. The Joker? Even he wasn't anything compared to Batman. At least the Joker had never reduced him to a hallucinating, cowering mess, broken bones aside. Besides, what would make her think that? The question was so bizarre to Jonathan that he forgot to be angry at her.

"No. Why would I be?"

Now Quinzel looked surprised. "I thought it would be natural. He did break your arm, after all."

"Yes, but—wait, how did you know that?"

"They didn't tell you?" she asked, brows raised. "The Joker's the one who brought you down here."

"What?" She couldn't be serious, could she? Obviously, the Joker was insane, but there was madness and then there was _madness._ No one would be crazy enough to drag his own victim over to those in charge and say, "Hey, look what I did."

On the other hand, this was the Joker.

"You were unconscious. He brought you into the infirmary and told the doctors he'd broken your arm. He's in solitary confinement now." She paused. "They really didn't tell you that?"

So the clown really was that crazy. Jonathan was grudgingly impressed. "I spent yesterday unconscious. I doubt they would have told me if I was awake, anyway."

Quinzel leaned forward, a loose strand of hair falling in front of her face as she wrote something on the notepad resting her lap. "Does that bother you? That they don't seem to care if you know what's going on?"

_Christ, psychiatrists._ He'd never realized just how insulting it was to have someone prying into his innermost thoughts until he'd been the one lying on the couch. If there was one good thing to come out of the night when Batman had force fed him his own toxin, it was that he wasn't one of those pretentious bastards anymore. Not that he'd spent a lot of time drilling patients about their feelings anyway, especially towards the end of his career. He'd had other things to focus on.

At that moment, there was nothing he would have liked more than to tell her exactly where she could shove that notepad, but he doubted the Joker would take that well. If he wanted to keep his right arm unbroken, there was no way out of this but to answer. Crane sighed. "Look, Dr. Quinzel—"

"Call me Harley. Everyone does."

"Harley, then. Look, I'll be honest. I don't like psychiatrists. I don't think there's any point in talking to you right now, and I don't believe it would do either of us any good even if we went over every aspect of my life five times with a fine toothed comb. Well, maybe you, because at least you would have proved to your superiors that you could get your patient to talk, but at the end of it all I think I'd be in the same place I am now, so I don't see the use in trying."

She blinked.

_Fuck. And that, idiot, _he told himself, _is why honest is not the best policy. She's going to leave, and the Joker's going to want to know why. And he'll ask why by breaking your other arm, and then one of your legs. Probably both. He might even carve up your face, if he feels like it._ He cleared his throat. "Er…what I mean is—"

"No, don't apologize." She waved one hand as if smacking the excuse away. "I want to know how you feel. It's not something you should think you need to cover up. If I do or say something that makes you uncomfortable, I want you to tell me, okay?"

"All right." _God, this is turning into some sort of After-School Special._ Because just killing him wouldn't have been painful enough, thanks to the Joker he had to sit through this drek? He did not want to talk and bond and heal and love. He wanted to get out of this bed and make this girl scream, give her a glimpse of the mind she was trying to get into. _Can't do that, _he reminded himself, biting down on his lip and tasting the dried blood there.

"You," she said, flipping through his folder, "have been through many different doctors, haven't you?"

"Scared them all away." _Like I'd love to do to you._

"Mm-hmm." Harley looked back up at him, her eyes meeting his. None of the Arkham staff ever did that. It made Jonathan uneasy. "I imagine it would be hard to trust anyone when you never know how long they'll stay."

_Am I supposed to respond to that?_ He shrugged, waiting for her to go on.

"Now you mentioned early that speaking to me would "prove to my superiors that I can get you to talk," right? That's not something I care about, Dr. Crane. I'm here to help you with anything you're going through, not to make a point, understand? And I'm not going to leave, even if you think that this is fruitless. All right?"

_Lady, I may be on morphine, but I'm not high enough to believe _that. Oh, it was tempting to say it. But he nodded instead. "Sorry."

"Don't be. There's nothing to apologize for." Her eyes drifted down to his cast. "Can I ask why the Joker did that to you?"

Now how was he supposed to answer that? If the Joker didn't want Crane scaring her off, then he must want this woman to stay at the hospital. Jonathan doubted she'd respond well to "he wanted to threaten me into behaving so you'd hang around." That would probably put her on the next bus out of town.

So, lying then. He looked away from her, blinking a few times before open his eyes to their widest and staring down at his bed sheets, frowning. "I don't think I'm ready to talk about that yet." His words were as soft as he could make them and still be heard.

"I understand." He heard her stand. "Well Doctor, that's all the time in this week's session, but I'll see you again, okay?"

"All right." He could feel her eyes on him, but didn't face her until she'd turned and headed out the door.

* * *

He was moved back into his own cell by nightfall. Still receiving morphine, though milder than before, he drifted off easily enough, and woke just as easily to find someone sitting on top of him, holding his cast-wrapped arm up.

"Joker?"

"Yep."

Crane tried to pull back. He felt a light slap against the side of his head and gave up.

"Calm down. I'm signin' your cast, you'll ruin it if ya move around like that."

"You're what?"

"Signin' it. See?" His own arm was shoved into his face, then quickly tugged away again. "Sorry. Forgot ya can't read without your glasses. Well, it says "Get well soon-J," and under that I've drawn a smiley face."

"Wonderful," Crane said dryly, "though I take it you didn't break out of solitary just to apologize."

"Ah, so the scarecrow does have more than straw in his head. Didn't scare my girl off, didya?"

"No. I was probably the most responsive patient she's had in years."

"Good." Crane saw the blurred outline of what had to be a hand reach out, ruffling his hair. "'Cuz if ya hadn't, I'd, uh, have to have taken this off-" Here he tapped against the cast, "And broken your arm in a few more spots."

"Lucky me. But why did you break into my cell? Couldn't you have just checked Quinzel's notes? Her office is closer to solitary anyway."

"Kinda lacks the personal touch, don't ya think? I wanted to make sure there's no hard feelings after the other night. And maybe I already checked, or that's my next stop."

"Ah."

"Now." the Joker ran his fingers through Crane's hair and down to the bandage covering the fingernail cuts in his cheek. "Didya have any other questions? 'Cuz I'm getting kinda tired of answering them." He pushed down on the bandage, nails etching into the surface.

"There's nothing else."

"Good." And then, just as quickly as he'd jumped Jonathan the night before, he was gone.

Crane lay awake for some time after that, mind working through the morphine. So Harleen Quinzel was a new, idealistic psychiatrist that the Joker had taken an interest to, and he played a part in this somehow? The Joker wanted to met her, that was obvious, and Crane was fairly sure he knew why. From what he'd seen in the past few days, the Joker was a manipulator, and a naïve young doctor could fall for his lies. _So where do I come in?_

He pondered it for a while until the answer came to him. After the Joker, Scarecrow was the most dangerous "super-criminal" housed at Arkham. Nigma didn't kill people, and was fairly easy to catch once the bat figured out his riddles, and Isley only went after plant-related things. Scarecrow and the Joker were the only two that terrorized indiscriminately, and the Joker was the bigger threat as Scarecrow only sought to strike fear, whereas Joker did whatever he felt like.

So if an ambitious young doctor did have her eyes on an incredibly dangerous patient, like the Clown Prince of Crime, and managed to convince her superiors that she could handle an extreme case, they'd want to try her on something lesser to begin, wouldn't they? Meaning that, if he was right, Crane was the only thing between the Joker and whatever he wanted from Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

Not that he was stupid enough to stand between the Joker and his goals, but it would be interesting to see where this led, to say the least.

* * *

AN: Thanks for the review, First Lady Lestat! I'll try to have the next chapter up soon.


	3. Session Two, Or Art Class

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Sorry about the delay on this one, guys. I'm currently playing a campus game of Humans vs. Zombies, and hiding from zombie hordes impedes the writing process. I've become undead now, though, so I should be able to do more writing. And thanks for your advice, First Lady Lestat. I hadn't even realized the anonymous reviews were disabled.

AN: (1/31/09) This chapter has been slightly revised again, namely in Harley and Jonathan's conversation about fear.

* * *

"He actually signed it?"

"Yes," Jonathan said for the third time, as Isley ran her hand over the smile the Joker had drawn. "He signed it. Can I have my arm back now?"

"In a minute," Nigma said, knocking Isley out of her chair to sit beside him. "I want to see this."

"Hey!" Isley snapped, her cheeks nearly as red as her hair.

"Sorry, Pam," Nigma said absently, examining the message. "Heh. His handwriting's more legible that I would have guessed."

The four of them-Crane, Nigma, Isley, and Tetch-were supposed to be gathered here for a group therapy session, but their counselor was late, as usual. Normally that wouldn't have bothered Jonathan, as he found the idea of group therapy completely idiotic, especially in their case. He could only imagine the thought process that had gone into setting this group up. _Oh, we have a bunch of dangerous criminals? Why don't we put them all together so they can talk about how much they love breaking the law? I'm sure _that_ won't lead to any dangerous villain team-ups or other threats to the city!_

Today, though, he found himself almost hoping for the arrival their sunny, empty-headed group leader. Forcing himself to take part in the discussion couldn't have been much more annoying than being a show-and-tell for the other inmates. They'd heard about the Joker's visit to him through the grape vine, and had gathered around like preteen girls wanting to hear about a friend's first date.

"Let me see if I've got this straight." Isley leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. The lighting made her hair gleam, seeming almost orange. "First he broke your arm, and then he not only took you to the infirmary, but also signed your cast? Who does that?"

"Curiouser and curiouser," muttered Tetch, who rarely spoke, and even more rarely said things that weren't written by Lewis Carroll.

"I doubt he signed it in apology. What I'm wondering, Crane," Nigma said, steepling his fingers, "is what you did to provoke him in the first place. The Joker might enjoy flaunting his mastery over Arkham's security, but I don't think he'd injure you just to show off."

Jonathan shrugged, trying to avoid making eye contact without looking like he was avoiding it. "He's insane. Since when does he need a logical motive?"

"Most everyone's mad here," Tetch pointed out.

"Right," said Isley, "and no one else goes around breaking bones for no reason. Hallucinated reasons, maybe, but not for no reason at all."

"No one else is _that _mad," Jonathan countered, hoping he sounded casual. "Not even close."

"I still say you must have done something." Nigma shifted forward, eyes sparkling. "You can't tell me you have no idea what it is."

"You're the Riddler, Nigma," Jonathan said flatly, turning back to face him. "If he had a motive, figure it out and let me know. Now, can I _please_ have my arm back?"

"No." Nigma tightened his grip. "Now, who has a marker? I want to sign this too."

* * *

"Messages from your friends?" Harley asked as he came into her office. He sat down, taking note of his surrounding before answering. Many of the Arkham staff tried to combat the gloom of their patients by making their offices as bright and cheery as possible, which thankfully seemed to not be the case here.

_Thank God. I don't know if I could stand to be in another office full of daisies and kittens and motivational posters, Joker or not._ Harley's office was just as beige and ordinary as the hall he'd come down to get in it, save for a dried rose sitting in a vase on her desk and an ordinary, not cutesy-pictures-of-baby-animals calendar on the wall.

"Yes," he said, once he'd taken the room in. "We were supposed to have group therapy. It turned into an art class."

As soon as the counselor had arrived, the others insisted on finding some markers. In addition to the original signature, he was now sporting a rabbit in a waistcoat, a large question mark, and a smiling sun that the group leader had drawn,(amazingly oblivious enough to overlook the Joker's note as she did) complete with sunglasses. Why draw sunglasses on the sun? In what world did that make sense?

But Isley had drawn the most. Apparently not content to make a simple flower or a leaves-of-three, she'd exhausted a green marker making vines up and down his arm. On the one hand, all of this was a welcome distraction from the Joker's message and the questions it drew. On the other, that didn't make it any less annoying.

"You mentioned last week that you don't like psychiatry," Harley said, uncapping her pen. "Is it any better in a group?"

Jonathan shrugged. "Does the pope hate Catholics?"

"Hmm. Dr. Crane, can I ask why you became a psychiatrist if you dislike them so much? Isn't that contradictory?"

"I didn't dislike them until I ended up in here." He watched her pen flit across the notepad and continued, "If you found yourself on the other side of that desk, I doubt you'd like it either. It's easy to think you're helping people, but to the inmates all you're doing is prying into information they'd rather keep private and adjusting their meds."

She looked up. "Is that how you feel?"

"Would I have said it if it wasn't?"

"So, when you tested your fear toxin on your patients, you thought you were helping them?"

"What?"

"You said the doctors think they're helping people. Is that what you thought you were doing then?"

"No," said Jonathan, shaking of his head. _Not directly, anyway. It helps in the long run._ "I'm not crazy enough to think that shooting someone up with a panic-inducing hallucinogen is conductive to good mental health." _I wasn't crazy at all back then,_ he added mentally. _You can thank Batman for my current state._

Harley nodded, her glasses sliding down a on her nose as she did so. She pushed them back up with her free hand, still writing with the other. "So why do it?"

"For the fear," he replied, the darkness in his head muttering in agreement.

She paused. "Can you elaborate on that?"

"The fear. To understand it, what causes it, how it works. If someone fears you, they can't touch you. No matter what, you know you're as good as invincible around them. It's…it's an incredible power to have over someone. It doesn't take strength or wealth, or anything. Just your own intelligence and hold over another person, and if you exercise those correctly, you have absolute control. It's like…" Jonathan trailed off.

"Yes?" Harley prompted, pen once more at work but eyes on him.

"Nothing. I don't know." He wasn't sure if he'd spoken aloud; he couldn't hear himself over the darkness. It grew much louder as he'd spoken, not an actual voice, more of an acute need to find something or someone. Terrorize it, reduce it to a broken, crying heap that would never get up again. He was almost burning from the want of it, to make this girl scream, make her cower under her desk, make her run from the asylum and never come back. "Just…it's nice."

She looked as if she was considering pressing the point, but decided against it. "Why is that power so important to you?"

"Why wouldn't it be? Everyone wants to be respected, to lord over at least one other person. Humanity's inherently selfish. No one's truly satisfied as a follower."

"But you, specifically." She pursed her lips. "Is it just your inherent selfishness that makes you want power? Or is there another reason you want be to in control?"

"It's not a want, it's a need." Jonathan raised his broken arm. "Look what happens when you lose that control."

She made another note, then glanced at the clock and stood. "Well, you're free to go for this week. Oh, and Doctor?"

"Yes?" Jonathan asked, trying not to stand too abruptly. He wanted out of this office, now, before the need got any great and he ended up terrorizing the Joker's woman. At the same time, it was imperative not to let her know that, not to let her gain that information to use against him.

"Could I sign your cast too?"

She could tattoo her initials on his forehead for all he cared, if it got him out of here any faster. "Sure." He extended his arm to Harley, watching as her bright red signature appeared on top of Isley's vines. She dotted the eye with a circle, Jonathan noted, as she finished writing and turned his arm to take in the rest—

_Oh, shit._ And there, exposed to the one person he cared most about hiding it from, was the Joker's signature. He pulled his arm back, but the sudden widening of her eyes let him know he was too late. _Shit._

"The Joker?" she asked softly.

There was no point in lying now. He nodded.

"He broke out of solitary and into your room?"

Another nod. There was a long pause, both of them avoiding the other's gaze.

"Well…I'll see you next week."

Jonathan nodded, and rushed out of the room as quickly as he could without tripping over his own feet. _Shit shit shit shit…_

Approximately sixteen swears later, his brain was back to rational thought, and the strangeness of the situation struck him. Harley had looked surprised when she'd seen the signature, but didn't sound shocked when she'd questioned him. Jonathan wasn't exactly the typical doctor, but he thought he'd have been a bit more taken aback by such a dangerous patient waltzing around in the other inmates rooms, especially when said patient was supposed to be in strict lockdown.

And…he hadn't seen much when he'd left, fast as he was moving, but it didn't look like she'd headed for the phone. It was standard procedure to inform security if a patient had broken out, and common sense in the Joker's case, but Jonathan didn't think she had or planned to. _So, she knows he can break out, and she's not reporting it? He's visited her before?_ He'd thought the Joker wouldn't set his plan into motion until after Harley had been assigned to his case. Clearly, he'd been wrong.

Curiouser and curiouser indeed.

* * *

AN: I'll try to have the next chapter up soon. Thanks for all the reviews!


	4. Touching

Disclaimer: Once again, I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings and the like. I'm only a poor college student.

AN: I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed again. You people rock!

* * *

"So tell me, scaredy cat, do ya ever sleep like a normal person?"

Crane groaned inwardly, hardly bothering to open his eyes. It had been six days since his last session with Harley, six ordinary, Joker-free days. He was beginning to think the clown had stopped darkening his doorstep, but clearly he'd thought wrong. "What do you want?"

"No, seriously. Every time I come in here, you're moaning, and from what I read in Quinzel's files, ya pitched a screaming fit that night in the infirmary. What's up with that?"

He sighed and sat up, glaring at the figure on the foot of the bed. Or, at least, glared as best he could at something he couldn't really focus on, without the glasses. It got the message across, anyway. Probably. "Does it matter?"

Joker shrugged. "Just tryin' to make conversation. So sue me."

"If you're reading Quinzel's files," Jonathan said, sliding his glasses on. "Why do you still bother to come in here? Is your comprehension that poor, or do you enjoy waking me up in the middle of the night?"

"The second one, but there's no need to get defensive. For all I know, there's more going on when you're in her office than she writes. So, uh, what's up, doc?"

"She knows you can get out of your cell."

"Ah? Ya told her?"

"Oh, definitely." Crane rolled his eyes. "I tattled on the psychopath who broke my arm for kicks, full well knowing he'd just get out again even if they kept a closer watch and pay me back for telling, because that makes perfect sense. She certainly didn't find out because you left your signature on me, that's just silly. Anyway, she already knew."

The Joker lay down on the bed beside him, brown eyes scanning his face. "She said that?"

"Not in so many words. But she didn't seem all that shocked, and she didn't report it, at least not to my knowledge. You've broken out and made contact with her before, haven't you? Not face to face, I'm sure she would have told someone that, but you have contacted her."

"Think so?" The Joker reached a hand out, brushing Crane's bangs from out of his eyes. He let his fingers slide down to the tazer scars on Jonathan's cheek, red and highly visible due to the nail scratches from a few weeks ago, and pressed, ever so slightly.

"All right, I get it. I won't ask."

The hand retracted. "Anything else I oughta know?"

"She wants to know why you attacked me. Can I tell her, or would that get me maimed again?"

Joker shrugged. "Do whatever. I don't care."

"Really?"

"Hell, what's the worst that can come of it? She'll know I'm interested in her? Girls are usually flattered to hear that, ya know?"

Crane stared. "Usually, the man in question isn't a homicidal maniac."

"Ah, details." The Joker gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"You're insane."

"And that makes life much more interesting, don't ya think?"

* * *

"Last week you talked about control," Harley said, flipping through his file. "Can you remember when you first realized you need to have it?"

"I…I've always needed it." Jonathan tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair absently, thinking. "I can't remember a time when I haven't felt like I had to have it."

"What do you think you feel that way?"

"Well…" Psychiatrist or not, he couldn't hate Harley completely. At least she asked interesting questions, ones that required some effort to answer, which was more than he could say for the rest of the staff. With them, the questions were more along the lines of "How could you poison your own patients," or "what's wrong with you," or "you're a despicable waste of human life." That last one wasn't even a question, come to think of it.

"I've never had a situation where I wasn't in control turn out well. This," he gestured to the cast. "Batman, The League of Shadows, my great-grandmother, anything. I've always wound up with the short end of the stick."

"Your great-grandmother?"

"My mother and I lived with her when I was a child. She…didn't care for me much. I'm illegitimate, and she disapproved of that. My mother let her raise me for the most part, so she had total control over me as a kid."

"Didn't care for you? Was she distant?"

He thought of the scars on his back. _If only. _"No, we spent a lot of time together. It's just that most of that time consisted of her telling me how sinful I was and all the different things I'd burn in hell for. She was extremely religious, you see."

Harley nodded, slowly. "And where was your mother when this was going on?"

"Usually somewhere else in the house. Sometimes in the same room. I don't think it mattered to her, really. I was unplanned, and I believe she resented having me. So she let my great-grandmother take care of me."

"And your father? You never stayed with him?"

"Never met him. He didn't want a child, according to my mother. She'd get angry if I asked about him, so I didn't. And if my grandmother knew, she never told me."

"Did that upset you, never meeting your father?"

"No. When my mother would talk about him, she made it clear he had no interest in me. I don't think I ever expected him to show up and take me to live with him. Not that I recall, anyway. I always wanted out of that house, it didn't matter where I ended up."

Harley brushed back a strand of hair from her face. "So, your great-grandmother made you feel unsafe?"

Jonathan nodded. _That's putting it lightly._

"And you lived with her as a child. Do you think that's where the need for control comes from?"

"I suppose. She gave me the idea of scaring people, so it's possible the control thing came from her too."

"She turned you on to frightening people?" She looked up from her notepad. "How, exactly?"

_God, why did I start this conversation in the first place?_ he wondered. It was getting uncomfortable, not to mention far more personal than he'd ever gotten with a doctor. "She used to scare me. If she wasn't in the mood for a lecture on fire and brimstone, then she'd try to terrify me into behaving."

"And how would she do that?" Harley's tone was deceptively casual, but hear the undertone of worry, as if she was afraid of pushing him too far. He wondered why someone so sensitive had gone into psychiatry to begin with. Abuse was the norm in many cases, and he hadn't even gotten into the gruesome details.

Jonathan sighed. "Various ways. When I was very young, I was afraid of the dark, so she used to lock me in a closet with the lights off. If I outgrew a fear, like I eventually did with that one, she'd just move onto something else. About everything she tried left me horrified at least a few times. Well, except once she locked me in an abandoned church, trying to put the fear of God in me, I think. Only the place was full of birds, and I like birds, so it didn't take."

"Wait, you like birds?" she asked. Harley hid it well, but he thought she sounded relieved at the change of subject.

"Yes. What's wrong with that?"

"But you go by_ Scarecrow_. I wouldn't have guessed you were fond of them."

"I didn't choose it because they scare birds. That's what the mask I wore to keep from inhaling the toxin reminded my experiments of. They called me that, so I went with it."

"Oh." She wrote that down. "Well, back to your great-grandmother-I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I? By asking about this?"

Yes, actually, but he wasn't about to tell her that. Letting her know what affected him would be showing her a crack in the armor, and he wasn't about to do that. "No, it's fine. I don't mind talking about it."

"All right. Let me know if you ever want to change the subject. Your mother knew this was going on, you said, and didn't care. Did you ever tell anyone else? Teachers, friends, something like that?"

He shook his head. "I didn't talk to teachers when I was young. I was shy. It was hard enough answering questions in class, I never worked up the nerve to say anything else. And my friends and I weren't all that close. Really, we were just the unpopular ones no one else wanted to talk to, so we'd hang around each other, even though we didn't have anything in common."

"You didn't have many friends, then?"

"Not really. Most of them saw me as this strange, poor, tall kid-I was actually tall when I was younger-who didn't talk, I think. Those that didn't avoided me because they didn't want everyone else to think they were a freak too." Jonathan shrugged. "I've always been more of a loner. For the most part, I left them alone, and they left me alone. Except for a few idiots."

"And what did they do?"

"Just your standard schoolyard bully routine. Knock me over, make me eat dirt, that sort of thing. They used a staple gun on my hand once."

"What?" Harley's eyes widened.

He raised his right hand, palm towards her. The scar was faint, but still visible. "I had the misfortune to walk past them on the way home from school. They'd been building something, a treehouse, I think, and happened to have a staple gun with them. It wasn't a horrible injury, or anything. I just pulled it out after I got away, and when I got home my grandmother went on a diatribe about how boys who get bloodstains on their sleeves burn in the lake of fire for all time, or something."

"Uh-huh." She was writing, head down, but from what he could see of her face she still looked horrified. "Well," Harley paused to check the wall clock. "That's all the time we have for today, but I'll see you next Thursday, all right?"

Jonathan nodded, standing as she came around the desk to escort him to the door. He was in the process of stepping through the door, to follow the guard back to his cell, when he felt her hand touch his shoulder, twice in quick succession. He stiffed for a second before turning back in surprise, but she'd already shut the door.

_Did…did she just pat me on the shoulder?_ he wondered, bewildered. _Why would she do that? _It made no sense. Who would want to touch him? _I'm a criminal maniac who tried to poison the whole city, and she just showed me affection? Is she insane?_

No, it couldn't have been affection. The idea was ludicrous. She had to have an ulterior motive. He believed that humanity was inherently selfish, so it made no sense for her to be kind to a criminal if she was getting nothing out of it. _What is she planning? Why is she trying to gain my trust?_

"Hey, watch where you're walking!" The guard pulled him back from walking face first into a wall. "Do you want to break your face or something?"

"Yeah, sure," he muttered absently, lost in thought. The Joker had contacted her somehow…were they scheming something together? Where did he fit into that? And how did patting him on the shoulder help to accomplish anything? _This would probably be a lot easier to figure out if I'd ever learned the nuances of human contact. _Where was Nigma when he needed him?


	5. Friends?

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings, and I never will. Thanks for reminding me.

AN: Sorry for the delay. Turns out zombies don't have much more free time than humans in this game. Thanks to the reviewers as always!

* * *

He found Nigma in the rec room the next day, sitting by Isley on the couch. They were both captivated by an episode of _Wheel of Fortune_, watching the game as if lives hung in the balance.

"It's "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," idiot," Nigma said, voice thick with contempt. "Honestly, how can these people be so slow?"

"There's only two letters up," Isley said. "Do you have to spoil this every time it's on?"

"How am I spoiling things? It's obvious!"

"Nigma." Jonathan sat on the arm of the couch beside him, picking at the stray threads on his sleeves, unsure of how to begin. "I need your help."

They turned to regard him, Isley still irritated, Nigma with the eager expression he always had when faced with a challenge. "Yeah?"

"Someone…" He had no idea how to explain it. "Someone touched me, and I can't figure out why."

"Touched you?" Nigma arched a brow. "What, like a bad touch?"

Jonathan stared. "What is that?"

"Bad touching. You know, like inappropriate, After School Special, "show me what happened to you on the doll" kind of touching? Is that what you mean?"

"_What?_ No, it's-"

"My God, Jonathan." Isley's eyes were wide, her face going pale. "Did the Joker break back into your room and molest you? Because you have to report that. I know you hate the staff as much as we do, but you can't let that slide."

"Isley, have you completely lost your-"

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Jonathan, no one will blame you for it. Whatever happened wasn't your fault. We'll come with you to report it if you want. Did he threaten to hurt you if you told? Because all abusers say that, you can't let it intimidate you-"

"Isley!"

"Yes?"

Jonathan rubbed his temples, head spinning from disbelief. "The Joker hasn't touched me inappropriately. No one has. Did they just adjust your meds or something?"

"Oh." Her color came back rapidly, a faint blush spreading on her cheeks. "Well, then, why are you freaking out about being touched?"

"I'll explain, if you'll let me," he said, feeling a headache coming on. "Quinzel patted me on the shoulder when I left her office yesterday, and I can't figure out what she was up to."

"Your psychiatrist?" Isley asked.

"Yes. I know she had some sort of motive, but I can't figure out what it is." His companions exchanged a glance.

"Maybe she was being nice?" Nigma offered.

"Nice? Why would she be nice to me? I poison people for fun. I tried to hold Gotham ransom and nearly made everyone in the city hallucinate. I tried to kill a man who was setting up a homeless shelter, and gave dealers poisoned drugs, and she's trying to be nice?"

"Right, but she wasn't actually in Gotham when any of that happened. So none of it directly threatened her. It's easier to overlook something if you weren't around when it took place. And psychiatrists try to stay on friendly terms with their patients. It makes talking to them easier."

"Definitely." Isley sighed. "My shrink's always telling me how much he wants us to be friends, how much he thinks we'd get along if I opened up, that sort of thing. I finally told him I'd open up if he stopped staring at my breasts for the entirety of each session. Filthy pervert."

Jonathan pondered it. "So, you think she was just trying to make a connection? She didn't mean anything by it, besides 'I don't hate you'?"

"I don't know her personally, so I can't be sure," Nigma said. "But that's what it sounds like. Honestly man, you act as if no one's ever patted you on the back before."

"I don't think anyone ever has."

* * *

Jonathan settled into the armchair, watching Harley from across her desk. He cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed. "Can I ask you something?"

She looked up, smoothing out the sheets of her notepad to a new page. "Fire away, Doctor."

"Last week, you…" Maybe Nigma had been right, and it had been a sign of affection, nothing more. But it had stayed with him, like a song on mental repeat. He'd never been good with people, but the idea of someone, especially a doctor, trying to make a personal connection with someone like him seemed so alien. He couldn't grasp it, try as he might.

"Yes?"

"You…when I was leaving, you patted me on the shoulder. Why?"

She stared, as if he was the one behaving in a confounding manner. "Why? I don't know. You seemed unhappy. It was meant to be comforting. Did I upset you?"

"Not upset, exactly." He had no idea how to articulate it. "It just…doesn't make sense to me. I'm a criminal. You work with me because you're paid to do so. We're not…there'd be no gain in befriending me, since I'll talk to you either way. So why do it?"

Harley was still staring. "You really haven't ever been close to someone before, have you?"

He shook his head.

"Dr. Crane, people don't make friends to profit from it in some way. That's manipulation, not friendship. And I'd rather us be on good terms than just sit here and tolerate each other for an hour every week. Wouldn't you?"

He considered it. "I still don't get it."

"All right. What, precisely, don't you get?"

"I…why would you want to do more than tolerate me? I tried to destroy the city, I _succeeded _in destroying the Narrows. I tore apart people's minds just because I could. And you want to have a friendly conversation with me? Where's the logic in that?"

"Well, Mr. Spock-"

"What?"

"Never mind." She looked amused. "First, friendship doesn't have to be logical. And second, liking you doesn't mean I have to like your behavior. You're in an institution, after all, it's natural for my patients to have done something I disagree with to end up here. It's my job to help you stop acting that way, and it's easier for me to do my job if we're getting along. Which friends tend to, you know, do. Understand it now?"

"Well…" Jonathan mulled it over. "Your reasoning—I suppose it makes since. That was the sort of attitude my psychiatry professors said would be helpful. But I think you're the first person I've ever seen practice it."

" It doesn't seem to be standard procedure here, does it?"

"It's not standard in any part of Gotham. Showing concern for others here is likely to get you shot, or worse."

"Still, it's depressing that no one makes the effort." Harley sighed, shaking her head. "Anyway, I've got a question for you. Do you ever remember having a friend, not just a friendship of convenience, but a real friend?"

There was a pause as he thought about it. At first nothing came to mind, then there it was, buried deep, in the midst of a whole load of things he'd like to forget forever. "Once. I think." He lasped back into silence. _God, I don't want to think about this._

"And?" she asked gently.

"I was eight. So was she. We lived on the same street; she moved there when I was in the second grade. We used to play together. I spent time with her because she was the only kid in the neighborhood who didn't think I was a freak. Sherry spent time with me because there were no other girls her age around and I was the only boy willing to play with Barbies. But past that, we enjoyed being around each other, at least I did. So I guess it counts."

"Sounds like it. Did the two of you have a falling out?"

He swallowed, hard. _So don't want to go into this. Christ._ "Er…no. You remember my grandmother?"

"Yes." She said the word slowly, as if beginning to grasp how unpleasant this tale was going to become.

_Christ. _He lowered his gaze to the floor. "Well, she didn't approve of boys playing with dolls. She found out about it shortly after second grade ended, told me that I was a faggot and faggots burned in the deepest hottest parts of hell, and barred me from ever seeing her again."

"And that was the end of things?" Harley's voice was quiet.

"No. We still saw each other when she went out. And then she found out about that…" Jonathan could feel the blush on his face. Why had he let the conversation go here? It was private, it was showing weakness, it was painful above all. There was a reason he didn't think about his childhood, because dredging up the past just made it hurt all over again. And now here he was, doing just that.

"When she found out about that…well, livid isn't descriptive enough for her mood. She called Sherry's parents and…I never found out what she said to them, exactly, but it must have been something really awful because Sherry was never allowed over again."

"What happened to you?"

Jonathan stiffened a little. He couldn't bear to look at Harley's face, but he could hear the pity in her tone. He felt revolted with himself for showing weakness, exposing the crack in the armor not only to let her rip it open, but to assist. "I spent the rest of the summer locked in the cellar. It…it was this thing my grandmother did if she thought I'd been especially sinful, that cellar. I think to her it was a confessional or something, a forced repentance. The i-idea was if I was locked in the dark…with no one to talk to, nothing to do, that I'd have to make peace with God, or s-something. I'd never made her angry to be in there so long, though. From June to the end of August…I got s-sick towards the end…I think it was a v-v-vitamin D deficiency."

He could hear the tremble in his voice and it disgusted him. Here he was, humiliating himself, exposing secrets to a woman who probably couldn't care less as long as she got a paycheck, talk of friendship aside. To make matters worse, even the faint but ever-present murmurings from the darkness had disappeared sometime during this little diatribe. God, even his own psychosis was disgusted with him now. Pathetic.

"You…" There it was, the pity in her voice. "You spent three months locked up underground?"

"For the most part, yes," he muttered. He wasn't sure if she could hear him; he could barely hear himself. Not that he cared. She could have missed the whole discussion and it would have been fine with him. "A-aside from the occasional water torture, I mean, I-"

"The _what?_"

"S-she believed in baptism…but, more than once…and as more of an e-exorcism than accepting t-the Holy Spirit." Jonathan thought he heard Harley's chair move against the floor, but he didn't dare look up to be sure. The fear from his memories was washing over him, and he wasn't going to make it more noticeable than it surely already was. Knowing what frightened someone was the first step in gaining control over him, and he didn't want to give up any more than he was now.

"She…s-she used to hold me u-under, in the bath…Especially that s-summer, I t-think twice a month, maybe. I…I don't know how long, it would b-be, but it always s-seemed like I was about to die b-before she'd pull me out…" _God. _It was like feeling it all over again, the ache from her hands shoving him down, the sharp pains from where his body hit porcelain, convulsing, trying to escape. He _could _feel it, the burning in his lungs, stars exploding in his eyes, gagging, nearly dying just to be dragged out and shoved back under as soon as he caught his breath.

"Everything w-would get dark, and she'd pull me back up. T-three times, every time s-she did it…I-I don't know where my mother was…p-probably ignoring it, but I'd scream so l-loudly every time I don't s-see how she could and-"

He felt her hand on top of his, and flinched. He pushed back, but her hand stayed in place, and he felt the other on his shoulder, as it had been last week.

"It's all right," Harley said softly, and Jonathan found that he had no idea how to respond. If it were just pity, he could have blocked her out, gone on scorning himself for his weakness. But she looked as if she were personally affected, as if his past sufferings genuinely hurt her, and he had no idea how to react to that.

"No one's ever touched you before, have they?" she asked with a glance down at his hand. He followed her gaze and realized he was still gripping the armrest as if his life depended on it, knuckles white from the strain. Jonathan loosened it slowly, her hand still on top. "Nonviolently, I mean."

"Not…" he murmured. "Not that I can remember."

"I am so sorry," she said, almost in a whisper. Once again, there was that bewildering sincerity to her tone that left him off balance. "No one should have to go through those things. I don't care what you've done, what your criminal record is. No one should suffer that way, yourself included, Dr.—"

"Jonathan." The word was out of his mouth before he realized what he was doing.

"What?"

He blinked, taken aback by himself. "You…can call me Jonathan. We're friends, right? They call each other by first names…don't they?"

She smiled. "They can if they're comfortable with it. Are you?"

"I…" He thought about it. "I can't say that I'm comfortable with any of this yet…I haven't ever done this, at least not since I was eight…but I'll try it."

"I'm glad," said Harley, and Jonathan found, much to his surprise, that he didn't have as hard a time believing that as he thought he would.

* * *

AN: I'll try to have the next chapter up soon. The human/zombie war is almost over, so that distraction should be out of the way.


	6. Selfishness

Disclaimer: I still don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings, and that still depresses me.

AN: As always, thanks to the reviewers! This chapter's a little shorter than usual, so I'll try to have the next one up soon to make up for it.

AN: (1/31/09) This chapter's been revised again, to slightly alter Crane's motivation behind the fear toxin. The idea of removing fear entirely comes from the novelization of _Batman Begins._

* * *

"So tell me, Jonathan, did you ever leave your grandmother's house?"

She was still beside him, her hand on his. It was strange, slightly uncomfortable, but he found himself appreciating it in spite of himself. "When I was a teenager. Well, I didn't leave. My mom and I stayed there…but my grandmother died."

"Can I ask how?"

"Heart attack." He had to keep himself from smiling. It was one of the few fond memories from his youth, coming home from school to find his mother out and that bitch writhing in pain on the floor, shrieking at him to get help. How he'd stood there, watching, savoring the growing panic in her voice, making her feel fear for once until she finally stopped breathing. That was the first time he'd ever made someone else really frightened. Christ, it had been _wonderful_.

He didn't tell any of that to Harley, though. He doubted she'd see it the same way, and he didn't care to alienate this new-found friend.

She squeezed his hand for a second, then let go and went around her desk. Thankfully, she was still keeping his eye contact, not scribbling on that stupid notepad. Few things could have ruined the moment more than that. "When your grandmother wasn't physically harming you, am I right in guessing that she threatened to?"

Jonathan nodded. "Often. Vividly." The memory of it flooded back to him, displacing any of the pleasure he'd gotten from thinking about her death. It was all he could do not to shudder.

"So at home, you were under constant threat of violence, and away from home, you were under the same kind of strain by your classmates. They used fear as a weapon to control you."

"Yes." He clenched his hand to cover the staple gun scar. It was too much to deal with now, after the water flashbacks. He still felt somewhat like he was suffocating.

"And you think that's where your need to frighten others comes from? You believe using fear will give you power because that's how it was used against you?"

He shook his head. "I frighten people to understand how to induce fear."

She blinked. "I'm not sure I follow."

"It's…fear is the cause of all human suffering. Fear leads to anger and hate, and sorrow. I—weaker people wouldn't let themselves be taken advantage of if they didn't feel fear. The powerful ones wouldn't feel the need to take advantage. What I want to do is inoculate against it."

"Against fear." Jonathan could tell from Harley's expression that she didn't get it. No one ever did. Still, at least she wasn't outwardly passing judgment.

"Yes. And to do that, I had to understand how to cause fear first. Hence the experiments."

"So the experiments weren't a form of revenge for your past sufferings?"

"Well…" He thought back to Falcone's men, the ones he'd rendered legitimately mad after he'd lied to get them in the asylum. "Every experiment was done to further the research, but I suppose you could say a few were conducted with a vengeful mindset."

"So then…" Harley paused, lacing her fingers together. "I'm not advocating hurting anyone, but if you wanted to use fear for revenge, why didn't you go after the people who targeted you? Why use your patients?"

"Because no one here can go to the police. Who's going to believe a mental patient's story about a doctor torturing them with hallucinogens? And it's not as if some of the inmates here weren't for revenge. Falcone made me risk the operation, showing my connection to him by declaring his men insane at their trials. You know what happened to Falcone?"

"Yes."

"His men made up a lot of the experiments as well. They'd been classified as insane anyway, all I did was make the diagnosis real."

"So you believe it was justified in their case because they'd cheated the system anyway. But what about your other patients? What made it all right to poison them?"

Jonathan shrugged. He'd never thought much about the moral ramifications of using the toxin on anyone. As far as he was concerned, it furthered a good purpose and the inmates were fair game. "Remember when I told you that humanity is inherently selfish? I don't know how many patients had actually done something to warrant what happened to them, but would they, if the right situation came along? I think so."

She had the pen back in her hand now, glancing down occasionally as she made notes. "But why do you think humans are selfish beings? You saw the news last year, didn't you, when the Joker tried to convince the ferries to blow each other up? Doesn't their refusal to do so prove that humanity isn't so bad?"

"Maybe the police on the boats wouldn't let them near the detonators. Or they were worried that trying to blow up the other boat would really kill them, I wouldn't put it past the Joker. Even if they didn't use it, that's not necessarily a selfless act. It could be they were worried about what they'd look like if they made it out alive, how they could maintain their image if everyone knew they'd killed other people up to survive. They made the politically correct choice, but we don't know if they made it for the "right" reasons."

Harley sighed. "I know you haven't exactly grown up around any great paragons of virtue. At least, none that you've told me about. But you can't write off the entire human race because of that."

"Why not? Any action, no matter how saint like it seems, could be done for personal gain, or for people to congratulate themselves on how righteous and ethical they are. Say, a woman deciding not to terminate a pregnancy she won't be able to support because she believes abortion is wrong. That sounds selfless, until you find out that she already has children that she'll be dragging into poverty with her by having a new one. Suddenly, the selfless act doesn't sound so great."

"What about friendship?" Harley asked. "You said yourself that I don't have anything to gain from being friendly with you."

"And you said yourself that being friendly makes your job easier. I could argue that it's selfish to enter a friendship to lighten your work load."

She shook her head. "All right, what about you? You've told me that you don't believe psychiatry does any good. But you've also said that you'll talk to me, whether or not we're friends. Isn't that selfless, helping me out?"

"Hardly." Jonathan's eyes drifted to his left arm, still encased in plaster. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

He breathed deeply. The Joker had said he didn't care if Harley knew his motivations, but Jonathan didn't trust the clown, "man of his word" or not. "Do you want to know why the Joker broke my arm?"

Her eyes lit up as she leaned forward a bit in her chair. "If you're all right with telling me."

"Because of you."

"What?"

"Because he wanted me to talk to you, make sure I didn't try to scare you off. He did this," he raised his arm, "to ensure that I wouldn't. That's why I'm talking to you, to avoid having any other bones shattered. The Joker's taken an interest in you, and I appear to be the only obstacle in the way."

They stared at each other. Once again, there was that surprised but not shocked look on Harley's face. So his theory had been right after all. She knew he was after her, but she wasn't intimidated. She had no idea how over her head this situation was.

"So…so be careful. I don't know what he's planning, but if my experience is anything to go by, it's not good. Not so selfless, am I?"

There was a moment of silence, Harley lost in thought, it looked like. _Shit. _If word of _this _got back to the Joker, Jonathan couldn't see how it would end well. It was one thing to let Harley know why his arm was broken, and it was quite another to warn her away.

"I'll be careful," she said, finally. He almost jumped; he'd been so caught up in his own mental upbraiding, he'd almost forgotten she was there. "But Jonathan, I don't care why you're talking to me. I'm just glad that you are." Her eyes sparkled mischievously behind her glasses. "Oh, and warning me about all this? Very selfless."

"Not really. He told me I could, the last time he stopped by."

"He's still breaking out, then?"

So they _were _in contact. It was the only way to explain her nonchalance. How was he contacting her? Jonathan looked around the office for some sign, his eyes settling on the dried rose sitting in the middle of her desk and widening. _Oh, well, that would be it then. Roses. He would use something like that. _"Yeah, he's still getting out."

"Well, the point is, he said you _could_ tell me, not that you had to, right?" She waited for his confirming nod and went on. "And you didn't have to. If you didn't care, you could have just ignored it and left me sitting in the dark. I'm still calling it a selfless act."

"Or, maybe I didn't want my only friend in this place to get her face sliced open. That's acting in my interests again."

She laughed. "Jonathan, that's not acting in your own interests. That's called concern. All friends have that."

"So all friends are selfish. And since most people have friends, that just proves my point about humanity."

She rolled her eyes. "If you say so. I'm not going to give up arguing on mankind's behalf, you know. So we'll resume this debate next week?"

He nodded. They walked towards the door together, her hand on his again, and despite the indignant mutterings from the darkness, Jonathan found he was starting to find this contact pleasant.


	7. Gratitude

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. The closest I've got is a _Batman Begins _DVD and a Joker poster. Which, while awesome, aren't the same in the least.

AN: So, Humans vs. Zombies is finally over (zombies won, of course) and I've caught up on the homework I've been neglecting all week. It should be smooth sailing from here on out, at least until November, because I've decided to do NaNoWriMo this year. And then December has finals…_that'll _be fun. But I digress. Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"Jonny…"

He groaned and rolled over, not fully awake yet and not wanting to be. The day had been emotionally taxing enough already, he wasn't about to lose sleep as well. A hand took a light grip on his shoulder, nudged him.

"Jonny. Hey, get up."

"Eh." He buried his face in the sheets. Why was it every night he didn't have horrible nightmares something kept waking him up? Cosmic punishment? He'd never believed in karma or the like, but it was starting to seem probable.

"Scaredy cat." He was nudged again, harder this time. More of a shake, actually. "Get up or I'll push ya outta this bed."

Crane sighed, opening his eyes and pulling himself up. He was vaguely aware that he should be worried, as late night Joker visits ran a high risk of ending in death or horrendous mutilation, but exhaustion made it hard to care. He should really looking into sleeping pills, if the nightmares continued to make getting rest this hard.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and turned to his companion, irritated. "All right, I'm awake. What do you wa—"

The Joker's hands were on him suddenly, fingers twisting through his hair, shoving their faces together before Crane could react. He nearly screamed, but the Joker was on him before his mouth opened fully. For a horrible, gut-wrenching second, he excepted feel teeth ripping through his skin, but it didn't happen. Not that it was any less terrifying to feel Joker's tongue pushing its way inside his mouth, lips locked onto his.

He thrashed, trying to pull himself out of the embrace. The grip on his head tightened, the sharp sting that accompanied each movement letting Crane know he was achieving nothing more than ripping hair out. The rational part of him pleaded to calm down, just let the clown finish whatever he was up to this time, but it was overshadowed by sheer, wild panic.

Crane wasn't choking; intellectually, he knew that, but the hands on him, the snaking tongue in his mouth blocking him from breathing fully, it all hit too close to home. It was too much like being held underwater, maybe worse, because at least the water wouldn't leave this rotten, sickly sweet taste in his mouth. He pulled back again and when that accomplished nothing, did the only other thing he could think of; bit down, _hard_.

He heard a muffled yelp as a warm, coppery taste flooded his mouth. He'd just registered disgust-God only knew what diseases could be in that blood-when the Joker let go, and slammed Crane in the head with enough force to knock him off the bed. He landed, thankfully, on his side opposite the cast, though the impact was painful anyway. He sat up quickly, shuffling backward to avoid another blow.

The Joker hadn't moved from the bed, though. Crane couldn't make out his expression, but the giggling was unmistakable. _He finds this funny?_ Absolutely insane. Masochist didn't begin to cover it.

"Ya almost bit my tongue off, doc." His words were thick, slow, but good-humored nonetheless. "Lucky for ya that ya didn't. Overreaction, much?"

"What the _hell _were you doing?" Crane demanded, wiping Joker's blood from the corner of his mouth.

"_Tryin' _to express gratitude, but, uh, if that's how you're gonna react, I won't try again." Gingerly, he slipped two fingers inside his mouth, explored the damage, and extracted them again. "Heh. Might have to stitch this."

Crane was struck by the sudden and hideous mental image of the Joker stitching himself back up using crude, makeshift supplies, and fought back a shudder.

"Ya know, I just meant scaredy cat as a nickname, but ya really are that skittish, huh? What were ya, molested as a kid or something?"

"Maybe you shouldn't go shoving your tongue down unsuspecting throats, if you don't want a violent reaction," Crane said icily. He stood, slowing making his way back to the bed, close to the wall, in case Joker changed his mind and decided to slap him again. "And what do you mean, expressing gratitude?"

The clown watched his careful progress with a grin. "Told ya you're skittish."

He sighed, sitting back on the mattress against the wall. "Another question I'm not getting an answer to, then?"

"Skittish _and _impatient. Ya didn't hear the news?"

He could feel a headache coming on, only partly due to the recent blow to the head. "What news?"

"Quinzel. Ya helped her prove that she could handle these so-called super villains, Jonny. And ya know what that means?"

"You're meeting her?" he asked, feeling a twinge of fear. _For Harley?_ he wondered. _Am I actually feeling concern for her?_ No, that couldn't be it. It had to be something else. Crane wasn't sure what yet, but feeling concern for an Arkham doctor? Ridiculous. Probably.

"Bingo." And suddenly Joker was at his side again. He flinched, arms raised in protection, and felt himself fall back a second time.

A hand caught hold of his wrist, jerking him back up. "God, _relax_, will ya?" the Joker asked, wrapped one arm around Crane's shoulders. The other hand released his wrist and rubbed up and down his back, the way a parent might comfort a frightened child. "Look, now that I'm seeing her I couldn't care less if ya keep talking to her or not, so ya can go right back to being your scary old self if ya want, but I'd consider talking to her about being molested, if I were you. It's seriously inhibiting your interactions, ya know?"

"I was _not_," Crane hissed, teeth clenched, "molested."

The Joker shrugged, somewhat awkwardly, as he kept his hands in place. "Ya don't want to tell me about Daddy touching your special place, fine. Never been one for sob stories anyway. I'm just saying." Catching the glare Crane was giving him, he giggled. "Oh, lighten up, doc." The hand left his back, groping around the sheets for a second, then reemerged. "Cupcake?"

Crane stared at the confectionary held in his face. Just when he thought things couldn't make any less sense. "Where did you get that?"

"Kitchens. Sneak in there a lot too." He grinned. Crane couldn't actually see the specifics, glasses being off, but he could imagine the Joker's bleeding, diseased mouth well enough. He was overcome with the urge to vomit up everything he'd eaten since the Joker was first committed, and then some.

"And you brought that why?"

"Celebratory purposes. Also, I like chocolate. Want some?"

"I'm not supposed to take candy from strangers."

"Ah, come on. I didn't drug it or anything, if that's what you're thinking." To prove his point, the Joker took the first bite. "Ya sure?"

On one hand, he didn't want an indirect kiss with the clown anymore than he wanted a repeat of the direct kiss. On the other hand, if the Joker was in an amicable mood, it wasn't best to challenge it. On the first hand again, hell no. But revisiting the second one—

"Fine." He took a bite and handed it back, chewing slowly. He'd never been that big a fan of chocolate, even less so when it was being offered by homicidal maniacs. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Nope. Though I gotta tell ya, Jonny, it's been fun making ya panic over the last few weeks. I'm gonna miss it." He patted him on the shoulder, such a peverse reversal of Harley's gesture from earlier that Crane almost felt violated. "Ah, well. I'll probably end up breaking in for old times' sake. Sleep tight, scaredy cat." And with that, he was gone.

Crane lay awake for at least another hour, the taste of chocolate in his mouth not enough to completely mask the taste of blood. He felt repulsed, but more pressingly and puzzlingly, worried. Not for himself, he knew he'd served his purpose to the Joker and might as well have dropped out of existence. But Harley…he'd never felt concern for another person before, and didn't like it in the least. Like it or not, though, he was still worried.

* * *

AN: Another short chapter. I'll try and make the next one longer.


	8. Concern

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. And that's terrible.

AN: Thanks to my reviewers as always. You guys make me feel so loved!

* * *

If there was one thing he did not like about friendship, it was the concern. Jonathan was supposed to be the master of terror, immune to fear. True, the Batman had already proved that wrong, but it was one thing to be frightened by an enraged vigilante grabbing him by the hair and spraying poison in his face. It was quite another to lose sleep over worry about a girl, a doctor no less. One of _them_. He should have been above it, but he wasn't.

He tried ordering himself not to feel, which would work for all of a few minutes with each attempt. Then he'd find his mind wandering and be back to wondering if Harley's face would be carved open when he saw her again, _if_ he saw her again. Logically, he knew it made no sense; the Joker wasn't about to off the girl he'd put so much effort into meeting. But then, "logic" wasn't a word easily applied to the Joker. And he couldn't make himself apathetic.

Well, maybe. There was still the darkness, always muttering at the edge of his thoughts, trying to coax him into giving up control. And rarely had it been more tempting than now. Scarecrow wouldn't feel concern, he wouldn't be bothered if Harley ended up dead. Jonathan doubted if even Joker would frighten him. God, it seemed appealing.

Not appealing enough, however. Powerful and fearless as Scarecrow was, giving into his dark side would be losing power. And Jonathan had given up too much of that lately to lose anymore, even if was to himself. Releasing the Scarecrow meant releasing his primal side, and all of his intellect, his scientific curiosity, everything that made him what he was would be gone, save for the love of fear.

No, it wasn't worth it. Tempting, but not that tempting.

So he made it through the days as best he could, commanding himself not to feel. It wasn't exactly successful, but at least he was maintaining composure. No one would be able to tell by observation that he was really a nervous wreck.

And thus the week past, second by second, minutes seeming to stretch into eternity. And with each passing minute, his tension wound, growing tighter and tighter until he thought it would tear him apart. When Thursday arrived, Jonathan made a final valiant effort to ignore his feelings, mentally ordering himself as he made his way to her office.

_I will not ask her how she is, or how things went. I am the master of fear, and I am not going to expose any more weaknesses to this girl, "friendship" or not. So she feels sorry for me. So what? That doesn't mean I have to get caught up in her affairs. If she's idiotic enough to become the Joker's pawn, that's nothing I need to lose sleep over. I won't care if she tells me, and I absolutely will not ask._

"Are you all right?" The words were out of his mouth as soon as he was through the door.

_Damn. Well, so much for that._

Her eyes sparkled as she watched him sit, apparently picking up on his frustration. "See, Jonathan? That's concern. Definitely counts as a selfless act."

He shrugged. "Same counter-argument as last time. Friendship is selfish. But seriously." He avoided meeting her eyes. "Are you all right? I know you can't tell me the specifics, but nothing horrible happened, did it?"

"You know, everyone's been asking me that for the past few days?" she asked. "Not that I blame them. I've read the Joker's file, he wasn't exactly…gentle with the other psychiatrists." Catching his look, she quickly added, "But I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me."

He doubted that. Any close proximity to the Joker was cause for worry. "You're sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. Nothing happened, we just talked. Not about anything particularly meaningful, but it's not as if he tore my life to shreds and made me want to give up my job. Okay?"

Jonathan nodded, still disbelieving. The Joker was up to something, there was no doubt about that, but he had no way of knowing what it was unless he'd knew the specifics of their conversation, which he didn't think it was going to get. Harley might allow a maniac to slip her roses without reporting it, but she seemed the type to follow the doctor/patient confidentiality law. It made no sense, but then, few things here did.

"Now, about you." Harley uncapped her pen. "I take it you've been apprehensive this week?"

"Putting it lightly. I kept wondering if you were going to get killed." He sighed. "How do you put up with this?"

"With what?"

"Caring about other people. As if life isn't hard enough when you only have yourself to worry about. Adding on all the concern for others is nothing short of masochistic. Why does anyone do it?"

"Well…" She was tapping her pen lightly against the desk. "It's not exactly free will, Jonathan. People don't choose who they care for. I mean, look at yourself. You obviously don't like the feelings you've been having. But I think there's a basic human need for companionship, and friendship and concern go hand in hand."

"If that's a basic need, evolution is flawed. It might be useful to have companions, but feeling too much for them just leads to stupid and unnecessary risks. Like those idiots that are always on the news after a house fire, who ran back inside to rescue people. Who does that?"

"I would, if I cared enough about the person and thought I had a chance."

"Why? That's what firefighters are for, and they're trained to rescue people. Even if you found someone stuck in the burning wreckage, chances are you'd do more harm than good trying to get them out."

Harley shrugged. "I'd still feel compelled to try. I don't know, maybe you'll understand it after you've more friends."

"If I do. That's not an appealing prospect right now."

"Can I ask you something? If worrying about me is so irritating to you, why don't you just stop? I'm only your psychiatrist. You didn't care about any of your other doctors, right?"

"Believe me, I've tried." He looked away again. Great. He'd gone in determined not to show weakness, and now here he was, admitting another failure. "It doesn't seem to be that simple. You may be right about that need for companionship."

"Okay, so you can't force yourself not to care, but you're obviously unhappy this way. What do you propose we do?"

"You could promise not to do anything stupid," he offered.

Harley blinked a few times. "What?"

"That is to say—not that you are stupid, only that you won't…Look, the Joker's a manipulator. Everyone knows that. Just…stay on your guard, all right? Don't let him…" Jonathan thought of the flippant way the clown had mentioned molestation on his last visit. "Don't let him draw you in with some story about how he's this way from being molested or abused or something. Be smarter than that."

"But you told me that _you _were abused as a child. Going by that logic, shouldn't I distrust that story too?"

"I didn't use it as justification for my actions. My grandmother might have locked me in a cellar, but she didn't put the toxin in my hands and make me use it. I'm a person, not an abuse story. She gave me a taste for fear, but I chose to act on it. What I'm saying is, I have no idea what happened in his past-honestly, I don't want to know-but if he tries to sweep it under the rug with a sob story, don't buy it."

"Wait," she said, writing rapidly. "So do you think it was wrong to use the toxin?"

"What?"

"You said your grandmother's actions didn't justify your behavior. You think your experiments were wrong?"

"I think "right" and "wrong" are arbitrary concepts. I was speaking from a psychiatrist's point of view. But that's not the point. Don't do anything stupid, all right?"

She smiled. "Your concern is flattering, but I can take care of myself, you know?"

"Maybe, but that's underscored by the fact that this is _the Joker_ we're talking about."

"Okay. I'll be safe."

Jonathan wasn't sure if that was a yes, but decided to take it as such.

"Now, back to you. Right and wrong are arbitrary? Care to elaborate on that?"

"They can change completely given the situation. Citizens aren't allowed to take the law into their own hands, right? Because that's "wrong." It would lead to chaos. So Gotham is run by the corrupt police force, and getting worse every day. Then along comes," he swallowed hard, hoping Harley didn't notice, "the Batman.

"And what is the Bat? A vigilante. He takes the law into his own hands every time he stops a crime, but no one cares. Because he's cleaning up the streets when the police aren't, so that makes it "right." And then the Joker arrives and starts a killing spree that won't stop until Batman turns himself in, and people are horrified. So the Batman's back to being "wrong" because he won't give in."

"I don't know if Batman's the best example," Harley said. "He did kill five people, you know."

"Cops kill people too. But they have badges, so that makes it all right. The argument still stands."

"But there has to be some basic system of right and wrong ingrained in humanity. Otherwise, why would we have laws?"

"Control," Jonathan said. "It all comes back to control. Without laws to keep people in line, it would be chaos. And few people profit off of chaos."

"So people don't really care about right and wrong, as long as they benefit from the situation? I have to say I find your outlook on life depressing."

"You're entitled to your opinion." He shrugged. "I find it realistic, but your mileage may vary."

"Well, what about charities?" she asked. "Those people that stand on street corners ringing bells around Christmas, let's say. They're out in the freezing cold with the risk of being robbed, and they're not profiting from it."

"Maybe not financially, but other people will think they're a "good person" for helping those in need. There's also the self-righteousness. Same reason people donate blood. 'I saved three lives today. What have you done?' That sort of thing."

She shook her head, a few strands of hair falling around her face. "You have major trust issues, do you know that?"

"I call things like I see them."

"Well then, you must see the world through gray-tinted glasses."

"Or the interior of an Arkham cell. You haven't been in Gotham long. This city could take the faith out of a saint."

"As I've been told. Why do people stay, then?"

"Have you ever had a friend with a pet cat?"

"A what?"

"A pet cat," he repeated. "You know, when you walk into the house, and there's an overpowering smell, but your friend doesn't notice anything?"

"I fail to see how that relates to the city, but yes."

"It relates because they've trained themselves to ignore it. People new to Gotham are revolted by the way things are here, like your friend probably emptied the litter box three times a day at first. But after a while, you adjust. People learn to ignore things. Those who don't get shot."

"That's a rather morbid take on things."

"Truth is more morose than fiction."

"That's not always the case." Harley pushed her hair back, glancing at the wall clock. "And I would argue this further with you, but we're out of time."

"See you next week then." Jonathan stood. "And remember—"

"I won't do anything stupid." She patted his shoulder. "So don't worry, all right?"

"And don't die."

Harley smiled. "I'll try my best."

* * *

AN: I'll try and have the next chapter up soon. Let me know what you think!


	9. Good Qualities

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings, and I can't think of anything witty to say about that.

AN: Thanks for the reviews, as always! There might be a slight delay with the next chapter, as I'm visiting home this weekend.

* * *

"Oh yes, my quick-witted friend, buy the "U." That'll be of _so_ much use—"

"Nigma!" Isley smacked him across the head. "Stop ruining the show. It's not cute anymore."

He raised a brow, smoothing his hair back into place. "Wait. You thought I was cute?"

"No."

"But you just said-"

"If it annoys you that much," Jonathan said, "why don't you do something else?"

She pouted. "I would, but I've read all the good gardening magazines. Twice. You know, I don't think they bother to replace the magazines out here until they're completely destroyed."

"So you've told us," Nigma said. "More than once."

"Quiet, you." She swatted him again, this time on the arm.

"You could try broadening your horizons. It wouldn't kill you to get another hobby."

"Says the guy with his nose permanently stuck in a medical journal. Tell me, Jonathan, what's the point of keeping up on current practices when you can't use them?"

"Research. And I read other things."

"What, like that copy of _Sleepy Hollow _you carried around until it fell apart? Was that research too?"

"That was classic literature."

Nigma snorted. "Right. I'm sure your respect for the classics was the reason you were watching the Disney version last Halloween."

Jonathan glared at him. "I have no recollection of that."

"I do." Isley giggled. "You were cheering for Ichabod to make it across the bridge. You got really into it."

"I blame the sedatives," he muttered, suddenly engrossed in an article.

"Mmm-hmm." Nigma turned back to the television, watched for a few seconds, then looked away in disgust. "People are such idiots. Hey Crane, when do you get the cast off?"

"Two weeks."

"Nice. So, how are things with the Joker's woman?"

He looked up. "Who?"

"Quinzel."

"Ah. Fine, I guess. I don't know. She's just a doctor."

"Is she still touching you?"

"Can we please come up with a different word for it than 'touching?'" Isley wrinkled her nose. "I mean, do you realize how skeevy that sounds?"

"Sorry, and yes." Jonathan turned a page. "Still trying to appeal to my better nature, I think. I don't pay a lot of attention to her."

"Right. How are she and the clown getting along?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Doctor/patient confidentiality, remember?"

"Wait." Nigma leaned forward. "She doesn't report that Joker can break out of his cell, but she respects his confidentiality? That's a little twisted."

"Well, I imagine she—" Jonathan paused, turned back to Nigma. "Wait, what makes you think she knows he's breaking out?"

"Logic. He signed your cast, and so did she, and she doesn't seem stupid enough to overlook his signature. But she signed it a while ago and he broke into your cell last week, which tells me she didn't report it. The question is, why not?"

"Who knows?" He flipped another page. "Maybe she thinks she can use that information as some sort of leverage over him. It wouldn't work, but she might try it."

"I'd think trying that would end badly. Why do you think the Joker's so interested in her anyway?"

Jonathan sighed, closing the journal. So much for uninterrupted reading. "I don't know. You're the one who solves puzzles. Why are you asking me?"

"Because you're the one who spends time with her."

"I'm also the one who had to ask you what being patted on the shoulder meant. Do you honestly think I'm going to pick up on any subtle behavioral clues she may or may not be giving?"

"He has a point," Isley said, eyes still on the TV. "And I'm starting to think you're right about these people being slow, Nigma. This guy just guessed 'Q.'"

"He _what_?" Nigma spun around. "You can't be—you are serious. God. It's 'Always Darkest Before Dawn,' idiot!"

"You did it again!" She swung her hand. Jonathan couldn't see where it made contact, as her hair blocked his view, but from what he heard, it sounded painful.

"Ow! I thought you were on my side this time!"

* * *

"Mothers who jump into traffic to keep their children from being run over," Harley said as he walked in.

Jonathan stared. "What?"

"Mothers who jump into traffic to keep their children from being run over. Last week you said people don't have an ingrained sense of right and wrong. So how do you explain cases like that? Love would be the clear motivation, wouldn't it? I think love falls under 'right.'"

"Not always." He sat down. "Remember the assassin that made an attempt on the president's life trying to impress an actress? That could be considered a warped form of love, and despite their political stances, I doubt most people would agree with murdering the president. Anyway, maybe the mothers were worried that other people would think they were monsters for not saving the kids."

"So they're willing to risk death, or at least horrendous injury, just to maintain social standing? They couldn't just say they were too frozen with shock to move? Who'd get killed to uphold appearances?"

"Fundamentally selfish people. Even if they did care for their children, I could argue that they were saving them out of an instinct to preserve their legacy, not love."

"There's also a biological instinct for self-preservation."

"So they see their children as extensions of themselves."

"Your worldview really _is _depressing."

"I'm in an institution. It's to be expected. Speaking of which, how are things?"

"Fine. Nothing's happened, so you can stop worrying. Oh, and the Joker wanted me to tell you hello."

"_What_?" Jonathan nearly fell out of his chair. Which, as he'd been sitting normally, was quite an accomplishment.

"He said to tell you he said hello. And also that he hopes your therapy works out so you can overcome 'your crippling fear of people.'"

"Unbelievable."

"Do you want me to give him your response?"

"I don't _have_ a response to that."

"Yeah. I suggested that if he wanted you to get over that, maybe he shouldn't exacerbate it by harassing you in the middle of the night, but he didn't seem to see the connection."

"Why does that not surprise me?" He felt a headache coming on. "It's like he—wait, you told him what to do and he didn't attack you?"

"Not _told_ him. Suggested. Like, how I've never flat-out told you your views on humanity are wrong, but I've argued against them?"

"Even so." Jonathan brushed his fingers against the scars on his face. "He threatened to reopen these when he felt I was asking too many questions. He doesn't strike me as the type to take constructive criticism well."

Harley shrugged. "I suppose he's taken a liking to me."

"Let's hope not."

"Why? Wouldn't that be beneficial?"

"No. Haven't you heard how he treats his 'friends?'" He thought of the news reports on the Joker's deeds and shuddered. "The robbery where he coerced most of his lackeys into killing each other and shot the last one? Being close to him means a higher chance of death."

"I'm not going to die, Jonathan." She leaned across the desk and put her hand on his. "Don't worry about that, all right? Besides, why would he kill me after he's gone through so much effort to meet me?"

"I don't know. He's insane."

"Legally, so are you. Last I checked, you're not going to kill me either."

"There's a difference."

"Which is?"

"When I hurt people, there's a reason. They were either in my way or deserved it. When he does it, it's entirely random."

Her hand left his and resumed writing. "And you believe it's wrong to kill indiscriminately?"

"Not wrong, exactly. Right and wrong don't concern me. It's completely illogical."

"But going by your views on humanity, everyone's a bad person deep down anyway. What difference does it make who gets hurt, if they're all guilty?"

"Because it's chaotic. There's no rhyme or reason to it, and if you kill off everyone for fun, you'll lose people who could have been used as allies or leverage. It's self-defeating."

"There's no control, in other words."

He nodded. "That's what makes him so dangerous. That's why you can't trust him. He's ruled by impulse; he could try anything, at any time, for no reason."

Harley took his hand again. "I'll be careful, Jonathan. But he's my patient too, and I'm going to try and appeal to his better nature."

"Harley, he doesn't have a better nature."

She smiled. "I'd been told the same thing about you. Everyone has a good side."

He couldn't grasp how someone living in Gotham could be so naïve. "I don't have a good side. And anyway, Hitler."

"Godwin's law."

He blinked. "What?"

"It's not an actual law. The idea is that if you mention Hitler, your argument becomes invalid."

"Well, that's stupid. There are many times when it's a legitimate comparison."

"I know. But that's not the point. What do you mean, you don't have a good side?"

Jonathan stared at her. "Are you serious? I tested poison on the mentally ill and contaminated the city's water supply in a ransom attempt. I gave the assistant DA a fatal amount of said toxin, and she would have died if not for the Batman." _And I watched my grandmother die without doing a damn thing about it,_ he did not add. "You can't try and tell me you think I'm a good person."

"I think you're confused." She squeezed his hand. "I don't think you're evil. Misguided, yes, made some bad choices, but not evil."

"While I appreciate your faith in me, that's completely ridiculous."

Harley sighed. "While we're tackling your trust issues, remind me to cover self-confidence. You're not a bad person. I can prove it."

"Really?" This should be interesting. Or just plain sad.

"You said you don't have a problem with hurting someone who's in your way, or deserves it, right?"

"Yes. I think that pretty much destroys your "good person" argument."

"Not quite. Here's a question, if I were keeping you from something, would you hurt me?"

His eyes widened. "What?"

"Say, if you were breaking out, and I tried to stop you. I'd be in your way. So you wouldn't have a problem hurting me, right?"

"But…I like you."

"But I'd still be in your way. And since you think people are bad to begin with, I'd deserve anything I got for interfering."

"But…" he said, feeling a bit like a broken record. "I like you."

"Right, but that shouldn't matter. I'm still a bad person, and I'm still keeping you from what you want. So you'd hurt me."

"No," he muttered.

"Sorry? I couldn't hear you."

"No," he repeated. "I wouldn't. We're friends. And you're not a bad person."

She looked as if she were trying to keep from smiling. "But I thought all people were fundamentally bad, Jonathan."

_Damn her and her ability to use my words against me. _"Not bad, selfish. And maybe…some of them aren't. I don't think you are."

"Thanks." Harley grinned. "And neither are you. You just proved it."

"Hardly. All I did was-"

"Jonathan, you can argue that all you did was prove your own selfishness and hypocrisy, or wherever you're going with this, if you want. And that's fine, but know that I'm going to turn your words around to be in your favor again, if you do."

"I concede. For now."

"Okay."

"The Joker has no good qualities, though."

"I think you totally missed the point of what I just said."

"I'm serious."

She sighed. "If you say so."


	10. Lies and Slander

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: This is a shorter chapter, sorry. I'll try and make up for it with the next one.

* * *

Crane awoke that night to find his hands tied to the bedposts with what felt like pillowcases, and the Joker sitting on his legs.

"Hi, doc. Don't scream, or you'll regret it."

"What are you—"

Something in the Joker's hand flashed as he brought it down, and Crane felt a sharp pain across his stomach. He gasped, biting his lips to muffle a cry, and felt a wetness that could only be blood spreading over his skin. "Why are you—where did you get a knife?"

There was no response, at least not verbally. He felt the cold metal touch his skin once more, pausing just long enough for the anticipation to become torturous, then pressing down suddenly. He winced, struggling to keep in a scream. "What are you doing?"

"Scarin' ya. What's the matter, doc, I thought ya liked fear." A third cut. Crane couldn't keep himself from moaning, albeit quietly, and was immediately admonished by another slice. "Do ya enjoy this? Does it turn ya on?"

"Why are you doing this?" The tremble in his voice should have repulsed him, but it was the least of his concerns at the moment.

"Ya remember when I said I didn't care if ya talked to Quinzel anymore? That was only half true. I could care less if ya never speak to her again, but as long as you're still talking, I'm interested. So tonight I look through her files, and guess what I find?"

He felt the Joker's free hand on him, fingers pushing hard, swirling the blood around. Reaching up to Crane's face, staining his lips with red. "Ya told her she shouldn't trust me. That hurts, scaredy cat, that really does. What've I ever done to ya to deserve that kind of slander?"

_Fuck._ His heart had sped to the point where it was hard to tell where one beat ended and the next began. _I'm going to be eviscerated. He's really going to kill me. Fuck._

"Did it ever occur to ya," The Joker's voice was light, conversational, and that made things all the worse. "That I'll be having a hard enough time securing this girl's trust without ya working against me, doc? Ya ever think that I might not stand for defamation of character?"

He took hold of Crane's face with his weaponless hand, forcing his mouth open, slipping the knife in before his victim could react. It pressed against the inside of his cheek, the pain even worse than the cuts on his abdomen, though it barely drew blood.

"I don't wanna have to hurt ya, Jonny. Personally, I think ya could stand to smile more, but I doubt Harley would see things from that point of view. And I'm gonna have my work cut out for me overcoming her preconceived notions anyway. But don't think I won't do this if ya push me."

He applied a bit more pressure to the knife. Crane moaned, his eyes watering. "Don't be stupid, Jonny. Don't make me cut ya. Tell her whatever the hell ya want about anything else. I'm not gonna hurt her, ya don't have to worry about that. But if ya warn her away from me again, I'll cut ya. And worse. Got it?"

He pulled the blade, still lightly embedded into Crane's face, out, giggling as the doctor shrieked. A gush of blood filled his mouth, warm and repulsive. _God. I can't breathe. I'm drowning in my own blood, Christ, I'm drowning in my own blood—_

The panic attack was cut short when he felt the knife again, this time pressed to his throat. "Got it, Jonny?"

"Yes." Blood leaked out the corner of his mouth as he spoke, sliding down his face.

"Good boy." The knife retracted slowly, metal dragging against skin for what felt like eternity.

Crane pulled himself up as best he could against the bedposts, his broken arm burning in protest. He glanced down at himself. The cuts on his stomach had been made under the asylum uniform, which was already showing spots of blood. "And how am I going to explain this?"

The Joker gave him a blank look, head tilted, then followed his gaze. He stared at the bloodstains for a moment, eyes widened in a mock display of shock. "Christ, scaredy cat, why would ya do something like that to yourself? You're very sick, do ya know that?"

"I see." He couldn't win a physical fight with the Joker, that he was sure of, but if Crane were able to move, he'd be trying to get his hands around this bastard's throat without a doubt. The darkness had never seemed so tempting.

"Here, let me untie ya." The Joker leaned forward, his weight pressing uncomfortably into Crane's legs. "Oh, and Jonny?"

"Yes?"

"I've read about how Batman took ya down. Forced your own toxin down your throat, right?"

He glared. As if violation wasn't enough, he was using humiliation too? "Are you going somewhere with this?" He felt a tug of fabric, somewhat painful, and his left arm was free. The Joker leaned down, mouth to Crane's ear.

"Just wanted to make sure ya get the point. If ya try and scare her off again, I'll do the same thing. Only it won't be your toxin. It'll be drain cleaner." He paused, turned his head, licking the blood from Crane's face. "And I'll use the whole damn bottle."


	11. The Bat

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: I just realized I'd forgotten to thank my reviewers in Chapter 10, so double thanks to all of you! Sorry if this chapter seems rushed, most of it was hammered out while I was waiting to hear from my mother if my brother had broken his leg or not. Turns out it was just a bad sprain, thankfully.

* * *

They'd found out, of course.

The bloodstained shirt was the red flag. He'd meant to change it, once the bleeding stopped, but as it turned out, near death experiences were exhausting. He'd fallen asleep, only to awake after the morning staff had taken note of the cuts.

Now here he was, being interrogated about suicidal impulses. And as luck would have it, Fridays were Harley's day off, so he didn't even have the comfort of talking to her.

"You can tell me whatever you're feeling, Dr. Crane."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but just barely. If it were possible, this Leland woman had become an even more incompetent doctor than she'd been when he was administrator. "There's nothing to tell," he said, for what felt like and probably was the thousandth time.

"No one's angry about what's happened. We just want to help you." He tried, unsuccessfully, to block out her and her exaggerated tone of comfort. The cut inside his mouth, the only one that hadn't noticed, itched horribly. He ran his tongue over it, hoping to alleviate the sensation, then realized he was imitating one of the Joker's mannerisms and stopped. "I'd like for you to help me understand why you want to hurt yourself."

"I _don't_." He was unable to keep the note of surliness out of his voice. "I told you, I did it in my sleep."

"In your sleep," she repeated.

_Maybe, if you want your patients to confide in you, you shouldn't sound so dismissive of what they say. _"You've seen my file. I believe there's a record of sleep disturbances in it."

"There's a record of night terrors," she said in her gentle, patronizing tone. "It's not same as cutting yourself in your sleep."

"Really? It's been a while since I was treating patients, but last I checked it's not uncommon for those having violent nightmares to scratch themselves while they're thrashing around."

"Your injuries didn't look like scratches," she pointed out. "They were too deep and even to have been inflicted by accidentally scraping yourself with your nails."

"So I found some sort of weapon and did it in a fugue state," he said, annoyed. "I don't know."

"Found a weapon? What in your room could be used as a weapon?"

"I don't know, since I was _asleep_ when it happened. I could go test things though, if you like."

"There's no need to be defensive, Doctor. You must realize your story sounds somewhat suspect."

He sighed. "Look at it logically, all right? My cuts aren't deep enough to be life-threatening, so it wasn't a suicide attempt. Self-mutilators hide their injuries, which I didn't do. Those that show off the cuts like attention, and I am clearly not enjoying this. I do have a record of violent, thrashing fits in my sleep. It may be unlikely to make neat little cuts like that while I'm unconscious, but it's the best explanation I can think of."

She didn't seem convinced, but she was also getting the standard Arkham look of indifference. They had been talking for over ten minutes now, more than doubling the time the average doctor actually cared to discuss something. "What were you dreaming about?"

"Bats."

And ignorant as always, she didn't even make the connection.

* * *

"Idiot!"

Isley's hand connected with his face before he could duck, sending him reeling backwards. Nigma caught him before he could fall over, putting him back on his feet. Jonathan stared at Isley, ears ringing. "What was that for?" he asked, stunned.

"For making me worried sick," she snapped, eyes glistening. "Trying to disembowel yourself?! Did you ever think about how that might make us feel? Stupid!" He watched, bewildered, as she stormed to the other side of the room, shoulders shaking.

Before Jonathan could so much as try to comprehend what _that _was about, there was a tug on his shirt. He turned to find Nigma lifting the fabric, taking in the bandages underneath. "We could sign these too, I guess. It'd seem pretty morbid, though."

"Nigma, what was that?" he asked, totally lost. "Why did she just hit me?"

"God, remind me to devote a day to teaching you about emotions. She was worried, Jonathan."

"Worried?" Now it made even less sense. "Isley wouldn't worry about me, she _hates_ people. If I were a plant maybe—"

Nigma shook his head. "She just pretends to hate people. She cares about all of us, yourself included."

He stared. "Why?"

"Because that's what friends do, Jonathan. And yes, we're friends. You're clueless, you know that? It'd be endearing if it weren't so sad."

_I have friends? Besides Harley?_ It was comforting to know, in a way, though it reinforced his belief that friendship was more trouble than it was worth. Like Isley, getting herself worked up over him. And for what? Had everyone else been worried too?

"Uh, Nigma?"

"Yes?"

"About…about this." He gestured to his shirt, where the bandages lay underneath. "I…it's not what you think, I—"

"You don't have to explain it, Jonathan. We all do things. Though I think you should apologize to Pamela if you ever want to speak to her again."

"Right."

He made his way over to her cautiously, face still stinging from her slap. "Isley? I'm sorry."

"Damn right you are. What the _hell _were you thinking?"

"Er…" He tried to think of a reply that wouldn't get him hit again, and couldn't. "I wasn't?"

"Obviously." She patted the chair beside her. "Sit down."

"What?"

"I'm not letting you out of my sight again. Who knows what you'll try? Sit."

"Uh…okay." He sat slowly, Nigma taking the chair to his other side. _Super villains babysitting each other. What is this world coming to?_

* * *

"I heard you had an accident?" Harley asked that Thursday, uncapping her pen.

He blushed, glancing down at the carpet. He'd been doing that a lot during these sessions. One of these days he might try memorizing the pattern. "Yeah, I—wait, you don't think it was a suicide attempt?"

"No. The doctors said it happened during a night terror. _Was_ it a suicide attempt?"

"No," he said quickly. "But you're the first person who hasn't insinuated it was. We had an entire group therapy session dedicated to how it was all right to tell others you felt depressed."

She smiled. "Bet that was fun."

"Nigma and Isley wouldn't leave my side all day. I think they thought I was going to sneak into a bathroom and slit my wrists on the paper towel dispenser or something."

"At least you know your friends care." She sombered, suddenly. "But if you were feeling suicidal, you'd let me know, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Because I've been worried sick about you all week. I don't even want to think about how I'd be if you tried to kill yourself. The Joker sends his regards, by the way."

"_What_?" Jonathan tried to keep himself from gaping, unsuccessfully. Would the audacity never cease?

"He heard about the whole thing. He was the first one who told me, actually." She frowned. "I'm going to have to have a talk with my superiors about keeping me up to date. Anyway, he was worried about you, I think. He wanted to know how you were doing."

"Oh," Jonathan managed, head spinning with disbelief. "That was nice of him, I guess."

"See? Everyone has good qualities."

_For the love of God._ He shrugged. "Maybe."

"So, can I ask what you were dreaming about? Do you remember it?"

_About your "good qualities" patient shoving a knife in my mouth, _he did not say. "Batman." It was close enough to the truth, anyway. When he did have nightmares, they were about the Bat. Not that he minded lying to her. Mostly.

"Ah." She made a note. "Funny you should bring him up."

"Why is that?" He hadn't been keeping up with the news lately. Had the Batman gone on another killing spree?

"He's what the Joker and I talked about the other day."

"Oh."

"Hey, I've got a question. Before he starting killing people, do you think Batman helped Gotham?"

He arched a brow. "Why would you ask _me _that?"

"I got into a debate, you could say, about it. And since you're so good at finding a way to counter any argument I made, I thought it'd be interesting to see if you could come up with any defenses for him."

_Defend the Batman?_ Jonathan considered it for a second, then shuddered. "I don't think I'm the right one to ask, Harley. It's a little difficult, you see, to be objective about the man who force fed me my own toxin."

"Wasn't that in an attempt to rescue the assistant DA?"

"Even so." He was still shuddering at the memory, nails digging into his palms. "It was revenge for the time I'd used the toxin on him, I think. Isn't revenge something heroes are supposed to be above? That's what I always thought.

"He'd already got hold of me. I wasn't any match for him, not physically. He had my arm pinned so I couldn't use the fear gas, and then he ripped the mask off and sprayed me in the face. He wanted information…I wished he'd tried to get it some other way. God."

He felt the tightening in his throat that always showed up when he remembered that night, the demon Bat flashing in his mind as if the image had been burned into his brain. He felt, as he had so often lately, as if he were drowning again.

"But you had the antidote eventually, right?"

"Antidote?" He stared. What was she going on about?

"The antidote to the toxin. You got it, didn't you? Or did the effects just wear off on their own?"

"Harley," he said, incredulous, "didn't anyone explain to you what happened that night? Or how the toxin works?"

"I know the police arrived, and that later on you escaped when the League released all the patients." Her brows furrowed a bit. "Other than that, no one ever went into specifics. Why?"

"The police found me when they showed up, and threw me in a cell. Lieutenant—well, the commissioner now, questioned me on the League's plans, but I wasn't exactly in a state to give them coherent answers. They left, and that was the end of things until I was let loose."

"Right. So the toxin wore off. Or did you give yourself the antidote somehow?"

"Neither," he muttered, hands clenched so tightly he was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers.

"I'm sorry?"

"Here's the thing about the toxin: There is an antidote, but it's only effective within a certain time frame after you've been poisoned. I didn't get it within that window. I don't know if I ran out of time while I was straitjacketed in the cell, or while I was riding through the Narrows, or even after that. But I ran out of time."

"Wait, are you saying the effects are permanent?" She looked pale. "Then how can you be this coherent now?"

"After that time, there is irreversible brain damage, yes. You don't see it now because I'm taking pills to counteract it. If I were ever to go off of them, I'd be hallucinating and panicking all over again."

"Forever?" she asked, stricken.

"Not quite." He relaxed his grip, feeling slowly and painfully ebbing back into his hands. "As I found out before they'd worked out the chemical cocktail that makes me normal, it comes in waves. First, there's the delusional, terrified, curl-up-under-the-bed-and-sob-at-anything-that-moves phase."

"And the second?"

Jonathan wasn't sure how to explain it. "Ever since I can remember…there's been this…darkness in my head. It's not like a split personality, more like another part of my own personality that the rest of me keeps in check."

"Uh-huh?"

"It…it's not my bad side, exactly…I mean, I like frightening people no matter what state I'm in, but the dark part…I guess you could say that it's my wild side. That's all it wants, all the time. To make other people scream. Indiscriminately. Anyone I've ever met. That's all it wants. My intellect, my curiosity…all of it, disappears when this side comes out. And it never fully came out before I was poisoned. Close, but never all the way. Now it's the second stage, so it's around for half the time always, if I'm ever off the pills."

Jonathan didn't dare to look at Harley's face. It would be bad enough to see fear there, but there could also be pity, and he didn't think he could handle that. Talking about the darkness seemed to empower it, somehow, and the darkness didn't want sympathy. He wasn't sure he could hold it back in that case, and that horrified him as much as the Joker's knife visit had.

"Now, maybe I had it coming. And maybe the Batman had no way of knowing the effects were permanent, though he or someone close to him must have studied it, since he recovered. And maybe it doesn't matter since they've found a way to counteract it. Lots of people end up taking pills for the rest of their lives, right? But it's _my _mind. The one thing I should have absolute control over, and the Batman took that from me. You could say, I guess, that it was my own fault, and it probably was, but I can _never _forgive him for that. Never."

He sighed, pushing his glasses up and turning to regard Harley. She looked white as a sheet. "Sorry. I guess I wasn't very helpful to your debate."

"Actually, you were," she said slowly. "I was the one arguing that vigilantism shouldn't be tolerated. No matter how corrupt, as city is, I don't think people should be able to take the law in their own hands. Look how it turned out here."

"Wait…wouldn't that put the Joker—"

"On Batman's side, yes. He was saying that Gotham needed Batman. Or at least, he did."

Jonathan couldn't think of anything to say, as his brain had shut down.


	12. Good Behavior

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any of its characters/settings. I did, however, just get a very nice "I Believe In Harvey Dent" background on my laptop.

AN: Thanks to my reviewers, as always. I love you guys. This chapter's rather short, again. The next one should be longer, to make up for it.

* * *

"This makes no sense." Jonathan scowled at the TV, where some actress was trying and horribly failing to act dramatic.

"You're too judgmental," Nigma said, stretching out beside him. "It's supposed to be over the top."

"There's a difference between over the top and chewing on the scenery, and even_ I _can tell she's crossed it."

In the two weeks since his "suicide attempt," it seemed Nigma had been serious about teaching him the nuances of emotion. Thus, here they were watching soap operas of all things, despite his many, many protests.

"All right, there." Nigma pointed at the screen. "Can you tell what she's trying to convey?"

He watched for a minute, mind completely blank. "Disgust that her career has sunk so low?"

"The character, Jonathan, not the actress. You know, I'm starting to think we should forgo the TV for flash cards with expressions on them or something."

"That wouldn't work. I know the emotions, I just can't see them applied here. I don't see how you can."

"Actually, I'm inclined to agree with Jonathan," Isley said. As she'd been for the past two weeks, she was at his side like a tall, redheaded lapdog. "No one acts this ridiculous in the real world. Hell, even the psychos here have it more under control. It's a shame we don't get cable, that might have some decent shows."

"You two are such pessimists."

"Or realists." Jonathan looked back to the screen and winced. "Why do they focus so tightly on everyone's faces? It's not like her head filling the screen's going to make her performance any better. God, now they've cut back to that idiotic 'amnesiac fiancé' plot."

"You know what?" Isley stood, smoothing out her shirt. "I can't take much more of this. I'm going to check out the magazines."

"I thought you'd read all the gardening ones?"

"I have, but I'll take what I can get. Even _Highlights for Kids _would be better than this. See you when _Wheel of Fortune _starts." She wandered off.

"Do they even make _Highlights _anymore?" Nigma asked, watching her retreating back.

"This is ridiculous!" Jonathan felt a migraine coming on. He had no idea why he was still watching, except for a sense of morbid curiosity. "No one acts this way, Nigma."

"She's trying to hide her love for him."

"Well, then she shouldn't pull those ridiculous faces every time he looks away. Did it ever occur to her that he could turn around at any second? Even you have the good sense to wait until Isley's out of the room before you do it."

"It's an acting device used to—what do you mean, 'I have the good sense?!'"

"You do _that_," he pointed, "half the time Isley's around. Only when you do it, you don't look as if you're trying to push your eyes out of their sockets."

"Jonathan, you don't know what you're talking about." For once, Nigma was the one avoiding eye contact.

"You _do_," he insisted. "She does the same thing. Only when you two do it, it's only mildly ridiculous."

"I—she does that?" His eyes widened. "I mean—you don't get people. You're misconstruing it."

"Whatever." It was this sort of thing that kept him from understanding humanity. If he wasn't misconstruing it, and they did have feelings for each other, why not come out and say it? Jonathan couldn't imagine anything to be gained by skirting around the issue like this. Stress ulcers, maybe, but nothing beneficial.

He'd just resigned himself to never fully understanding people when someone ruffled his hair. He started, and felt a hand on his shoulder. The grip wasn't quite painful, but hinted that it could easily become so. "Hey, relax."

_Shit. _He went stiff as a board, recognizing the voice. Nigma's wide-eyed expression confirmed the horrible truth, and the cushions shifted under him as the Joker sat down. "So how ya been, Jonny?"

Well, it was official. No place in Arkham was safe. He'd known that, he supposed, but it was still disheartening to have the suspicion confirmed. "Since when are you allowed in the rec room?"

"Since today. Good behavior privilege." He smacked his lips. Repulsive. "When'd ya get the cast off?"

"Last week."

"Nice. You're not still mad about the whole arm-breaky thing, are ya?"

Jonathan should have felt angered, but as usual, the sheer audacity of the Joker's statement left him stunned instead. It took most of his will power not to sit there gaping, as Nigma still was. "Oh, no. Don't be silly."

"Ya still suicidal?"

Ah, there was the anger. He wasn't actually seeing red yet, but he was getting there. "_No_."

"Good."

There followed an awkward pause in which Jonathan avoided looking at the Joker, Nigma continued staring, and the Joker turned his attention to the television.

"What on God's green Earth are ya watching?"

"Er…" He didn't know and the Riddler seemed incapable of answering. "_The General World Turns Restlessly_. Or something."

"Why?"

"Research."

"Oookay." The Joker stared at him, head tilted to the side, as though Jonathan was the crazy one.

"In the name of all that is merciful." Isley walked back over, eyes on a magazine she held, oblivious. "Have either of you ever read _Cosmopolitan_? It's smut, pure and simple. Seriously, there's an article in here on how to perform blow jobs and it…" She trailed off, having caught sight of their new companion. "Uh…"

"Please," Joker said, with a lick of his lips. "Don't let me interrupt. I'd like to know where that was going."

Jonathan sighed. "Isley, Joker. Joker, Isley. Nigma, Joker. Joker, Nigma. Are we good?"

His friends were _not_ good, judging by their expressions. Not that he could blame them. If he hadn't been somewhat desensitized by the clown's near-weekly raids of his room, he'd be just as terrified. He still was, actually, only better at hiding it.

"So this is what ya guys do all day?" The Joker looked around, with the air of a child on Christmas awaking to find nothing under the tree. "I gotta tell ya, it's disappointing."

"What at Arkham isn't?"

"Point."

The four of them turned to the television, watching in silence for the next few minutes as a girl onscreen sobbed unconvincingly, until the Joker looked away in disgust. "Hey, Red."

Isley stiffened. "Uh-huh?"

"Ya still reading that magazine, or could I see it?"

Wordless, she passed it over. Her hand pulled back as soon as he took hold, as though she expected him to rip it off. Which, knowing the Joker, wasn't that irrational.

He flipped through it, scanning pages. "Wow. There really is an article about performing blow jobs. Isn't this for teenagers?"

"That's _Cosmo Girl_," Nigma spoke up for the first time, his voice barely audible.

"Why do you even know that?" Jonathan asked. The question went unanswered.

"There's even a helpful list of "Don'ts" in the sidebar," Joker continued. "Curious, scaredy cat?"

"No."

He read it to him anyway, in a sultry tone littered with dramatic pauses. Jonathan mentally debated which would be worse; being stuck in an enclosed space with the Batman or the Joker. By the time _Wheel of Fortune _had started, half an hour later, he still couldn't decide.


	13. Not That Bad

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. I wish I did, but then, if wishes were horses, I'd have a lot of horses. Or something.

AN: As always, thanks for the reviews! And MK08, there's nothing weird about reading Cosmo aloud. I do it whenever there's an issue around, though that tends to end badly as I usually start pitching a fit about one of the articles. I believe the moral here is that asexuals shouldn't read sex magazines. It just gets us confused/annoyed.

* * *

"So how was your week?" Harley asked.

"Er…I learned more about oral sex than I ever cared to know."

She laughed. "Joker's first rec room visit? He told me about that."

"He said it was a good behavior privilege." Jonathan was still trying to figure that one out. He couldn't picture the Joker exhibiting good behavior any more than he could picture the Batman playing house.

His incredulity must have come through in his words. "He's not that bad, actually," she said earnestly. Catching sight of his expression, she amended, "At least, he hasn't been lately. He mentioned the other day that your friends seemed afraid of him, and he didn't understand why. It was kind of cute."

"Cute?" Jonathan repeated.

"Yeah. Like a little kid."

He tried running her words through his mind again, but "cute" and "Joker" refused to combine. He gave up before he could hurt himself in the attempt. "Or an enraged ferret."

"That wouldn't be cute."

"I know."

"You're still afraid of him, then?"

"No." What sort of a question was that? As if he was going to admit to that. On the other hand, lying to her felt wrong, somehow. "…Yes."

She made a note. "You don't have to be ashamed about it. I'd be too, if I were in your position."

"If you were in my position?" he repeated. "Are you saying that he _doesn't_ scare you? Because that's insane. Not to mention reckless."

"I'm afraid of his potential for violence, obviously." She sat down her pen. "It's not as if I go into sessions with my guard down. But his personality? Doesn't frighten me."

"Harley, he kills people for fun. In the most sadistic ways possible."

"And you broke people's minds because you could. You don't scare me either. There's a difference between evil and mentally ill."

He considered arguing the difference, but decided against it. The conversation was already leaning towards "The Joker is a bad untrustworthy person" and he didn't feel like receiving a new set of scars when it was avoidable. Still, he could not get over her naivety. It was a miracle she'd lasted long enough to get to the high security patients, she was so trusting. "Harley?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you become a psychiatrist? Nothing against you, but you seem too…nice to be here."

Jonathan expected her to laugh, brush the question off. Tell him there was no correlation between personality and profession. Instead, she seemed to seriously consider it.

"I don't know," she said after a bit. "It's not like I grew up with this as my dream job. I figured it out halfway through my psych 101 class in college. Before that, I'd been undecided. I don't remember what we were talking about anymore, but I know I was sitting in class one day and just thought, 'You know, I could do this for a living.' I like helping people."

He mulled it over. "Let me revise that. If you want to help people, why come to Arkham? It's not exactly known for compassion or high success rates."

"I wanted the challenge, I guess. See how much good I could do. I like to push myself." She took off her glasses, held them up with a scrutinizing glance, then started cleaning the lens on her shirt.

"I'd say you've done very well so far."

"Thanks." She slid the glasses back on, brushing her hair out of her face. "It's part of the reason I wanted to work with the high security patients, actually. I've always wanted to prove myself. Even back when I was undecided in college, being a good student was my top priority. I was the first in my family to go past high school, so that probably had something to do with it. I had no social life until I got my first job. I was top of the class, though."

"Impressive."

"Thanks again." She looked flattered; Jonathan guessed she didn't talk about herself much. Well, given that she spent most of her time with mental patients, that made sense.

"Just…if you're going to push yourself, know your limits, all right? Don't push too far." He didn't know which was stranger; that he was concerned for someone besides himself, or that he didn't feel the need to hide it.

Harley smiled. "You're sweet."

He blushed, which made her giggle. "No, I'm not."

"You're the sweetest "super villain" I've ever met. Probably."

He tried not to think about the implications of that "probably." "Fine, I'm sweet. But take care of yourself, okay?"

"You know, you probably would have made a lot more progress with your patients if you'd shown this sort of compassion instead of poisoning them," she pointed out. "Okay," she added, off his look. "I won't push myself too far. But you don't need to worry about me."

"I thought that's what friends did."

"Well, unless you want to be that annoying friend that calls every five minutes needing to be reassured about something ridiculous, you only worry when there's good reason to. And since I can take care of myself, you don't have to be concerned."

He was far from reassured, but didn't see the point in pursuing it. "All right."

"And if I do push myself too far," she continued, "I give you the right to say, 'I told you so.'"

"Why would I want to?"

"I don't know. But a lot of friends seem to take some enjoyment out of watching each other proven wrong. Schadenfreude, I guess."

"That seems…not conducive to friendship."

Harley shrugged. "People are funny that way, I guess."

"See, I would call that less funny and more new reason why I think humans are selfish beings."

"Do I need to argue on humanity's behalf again? Because last time I checked, I'd won that."

"Actually," Jonathan said, "you proved that I wouldn't hurt people indiscriminately, which I could still argue doesn't make me a good person. You never proved the goodness of the human race."

"And we're back to the trust issues." She picked her pen up. "I don't know that I can prove it to you if you're set on looking at things in a negative light."

"Realistic, not negative."

"If you say so. But what about Edward Nigma and Pamela Isley?"

He blinked. "What about them?"

"Well, they've been following you around whenever possible for the past two weeks, haven't they? They think you'll try and kill yourself otherwise. Isn't tailing you inconvenient for them?"

He hadn't thought about it. "I guess so."

"But they still do. If they were only worried about your safety because they think your company is convenient, I doubt that they'd put so much effort into it. Doesn't that make them good people?"

"They're _super villains_."

"Again, mentally ill does not equal evil. Do you think they're bad?"

He sighed. "No, I don't. But I think that they-and you-are only exceptions that prove the rule."

She wrote that down. "And how many exceptions would it take to become the rule?"

"I don't know. More than three."

"Four."

"What?"

"That's four."

"I'm not counting myself. I don't think I'm a good person."

"One of these days, I'm going to prove to you that you are."

"Well, when you do, I'll include myself on the list. Until then, three."

She looked as if she was going to counter, then thought better of it. "If you say—"

The door flung open, Leland coming through. She looked disheveled, a first. Jonathan had always suspected she gave more attention to her appearance than to her job. "Harley! Thank God you're here. I need—"

"Joan?" Harley asked, a little too evenly. "I'm with a patient. Couldn't you have knocked?"

"Sorry, but it's an emergency. Your patient just attacked another inmate and—"

She got to her feet. "Which patient?"

Leland rolled her eyes. "Who do you think? The Joker. He's in solitary now and you're supposed to speak with him immediately."

"What happened?"

"He drove an ink pen through the other guy's hand. Now, let's go."

Harley turned back to him. "Sorry to cut things short, Jonathan. See you next week." She half-walked, half-ran out, Leland close behind.

Jonathan resisted the urge to say something about the Joker being "not that bad" to her retreating back, and resisted. It took remarkable control. Well, maybe she'd finally see how insane the clown was. Maybe. Probably not.


	14. So This Is Love?

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks to all my reviewers! It's really great hearing back from you guys, even if it's only to say that you liked the chapters.

* * *

"I hear," Isley said the next day over breakfast, "that he stabbed the guy with the blunt end of the pen, and he did it hard enough to go through the bone."

"That's ridiculous. The bones in your hand may be thin, but they're still tough. It would take a crazy amount of force to shove a pen straight through bone, especially the blunt end." Nigma paused. "Wait, was it a clickable pen or the lidded kind?"

"I wasn't there," she said with a shrug. "Either way, I bet he could still do it. He broke Jonathan's arm in three places, didn't he?"

"Broke it, yes, not shoved something through it. It's easier to snap a bone than it is to impale it."

"Even so. Aren't psychopaths incredibly strong? What do you think, Jonathan?" They turned to regard him.

"I have no idea."

"You've spent more time around him than either of us."

"It's not as if we discussed his torture methods during that time. Thankfully. Anyway, he and his victim are the only ones who know exactly what happened, probably, and neither of them are around to ask."

"Good." Isley shuddered. "He was creepy as hell." She shot Jonathan a look, as if it was his fault that the Joker had sat down with them.

"All he did was teach us that you shouldn't use your teeth during a blow job," Nigma pointed out.

"Oh, don't give me that. You were horrified too."

"Not horrified. Stunned, maybe, but not horrified."

Isley's brow arched, so high it nearly disappeared under her hair. "Is that why you were shaking?"

"I wasn't shaking!"

"Right. So the vibrations I felt were what, an earthquake?"

"Listen, I—"

"Oh, get a room." Jonathan regarded his plate. It was, he thought, supposed to be toast. At least, it had been at one time. God, the food here was so unappetizing it could induce anorexia. No wonder the eating disorder patients never seemed to get released.

They stared at him. "_What?_"

"Get a room," he repeated. "Is that not the correct expression?"

"Jonathan, you say that when couples are making out or being generally sextacious," Isley said. "If you say it to people arguing, it makes no sense."

He thought it over. He wasn't entirely sure what "sextacious" meant, but besides that, her point didn't seem valid. "People argue right before they have sex too. Remember, the couple considering a divorce on that soap opera?"

"That was _fictional_." Nigma said. "You can't compare that to real life."

"Why? It's created by real people." He tried what was passing for toast, and nearly broke a tooth. Damn food and its essentialness for life.

"People severely out of touch with reality."

"Doesn't life imitate art, though?"

"Soap operas don't count as art."

"They do it in movies too, don't they?" He paused, not being much of a movie watcher. "Doesn't Indiana Jones always argue with his girlfriends?"

"Jonathan," Isley said, patting him on the hand. "You're cute. Completely clueless, but cute. The real world doesn't work that way, honey."

_It might if you'd stop beating around the bush and admit your feelings. _Ah well. It wasn't worth getting into. He stared at his plate in disgust while his companions went back to arguing about whether it was plausible to impale bones with pens.

* * *

"How's your week been?" It was Harley's typical greeting, and he shouldn't have thought anything of it, but the words sounded off somehow.

"Good," he said slowly, looking her over. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hair was more out of place than usual, as if it had been pulled back in a hurry. Her smile was off as well; it was strained, as if she were forcing herself to be in a good mood. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." She answered a little too quickly, he thought.

"You don't look it." Oh, that was tactful. "I mean, you look tired. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. I was just up late last night. Don't worry about me."

That should have been the end of it, but he wasn't convinced. He couldn't think of any reason Harley would have to lie to him, but he couldn't brush off the way she'd evaded his eyes when she answered. "Are you sure?"

She gave him that same tired smile. "You know, these sessions are supposed to be about your well-being."

She hadn't answered the question. _Something's up_. "You know how you don't tell anyone what we talk about?"

"Yes?"

"Well, neither do I. I know I'm not bound by a code of ethics, like you are, but if you tell me something in confidence, I won't tell anyone else. So look, if something's bothering you, you can tell me without it coming out of this room."

Harley's smile looked a little more natural, but she was still avoiding eye contact. "Thank you, Jonathan. That's really sweet. But it's nothing, I promise. I've just had a stressful week."

"Is it the Joker-hand-stabbing thing? Are they trying to blame that on you?"

"Not trying to blame it on me, no. It's…" she sighed. "Everyone seemed to be expecting it. They all think he's completely untreatable and that I'm wasting my time trying."

He never thought he'd agree with the rest of the staff over Harley, but there it was. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's nothing you've done. It's just…how are the patients here ever supposed to get better if no one believes in them?"

"Er…through spite?"

"It's just unbelievable frustrating." She slammed a hand on her desk for emphasis. "Sorry. Just… do you know why he stabbed the guy in the first place?"

_Because he's insane. _"No."

"His victim? Was one of my patients before I started working in your ward. Serial rapist. We only had a few sessions before it was decided that he shouldn't be treated by a woman. Anyway, apparently he mentioned several things he'd like to do to me, and that made the Joker angry."

"And that's why he stabbed him?"

"Yes." She set her glasses on the desk, massaging her temples. "Obviously, it was an inappropriate response, but I'd take the fact that he was offended on my behalf as a good sign, wouldn't you? It shows there was a connection, at least."

_Or that he was in a violent mood and given a perfect excuse to let loose. _"They don't see it that way?"

"No. To them, it's just another psychotic symptom that warrants solitary and sedation. The orderlies actually dislocated his shoulder when they were apprehending him. What good does that do?"

"It doesn't?"

"Exactly. God. He's not evil, he's just…" Harley stopped, staring at Jonathan. "What I say, you won't repeat, right?"

"Yes." He wasn't sure what she was going to say, but he doubted it would be anything good.

"I…it's—look, I shouldn't be dragging you into this. It's just…you're the only one who won't judge me, I guess. You're the only one I can tell."

Jonathan nodded. "What is it?"

Head dropping down, she muttered something completely inaudible.

"I'm sorry?"

"I think I'm in love with him." She didn't raise her head.

"_What?!_"

"I know, I know. It's completely—"

"Insane?!"

"—Unprofessional, and wrong, but I can't help it! I know there should be nothing appealing about him, but every time I see him, it's…" she trailed off. "Do you understand?"

Jonathan found that he could not answer. Not that he didn't want to, he had absolutely no response. Both his mind and his vocal cords had totally shut down.

"I—he just—he makes me laugh," Harley went on. "And I know that's got to be the worst reason ever to love someone, but I've always been so serious—so driven to prove myself—I never had time for relationships or anything, and he just…he makes me happy."

"Harley," he managed hoarsely. "Do you hear what you're saying? The man is a sadist." He knew he'd sworn not to warn her off again, but this couldn't be avoided. She was going to get herself killed, or worse. And he doubted this conversation will end up in her notes anyway.

"I know! Believe me, Jonathan, I don't want to feel this way. I can't help it. It's—whenever I see him, it's like my whole day brightens. I know, it sounds stupid and cliché, but that's how it is. God, I hate myself for it. I know I shouldn't be attracted to him, and it's wrong for me to feel this way, it's taking advantage of my patient—"

"Taking advantage—Harley, this isn't your fault. Think about it for a minute: _We're talking about the Joker. _He's a manipulator. He's probably been twisting you to cause this ever since you met."

"No!" She shook her head vigorously. "He's not like that. He's not a bad person, and he hasn't done a thing to me. It's me. I should be able to control myself, but I can't."

"Harley, this is the _Joker_." His head was spinning, unable to follow her logic. "He is not a good person. He tried to destroy the city for no reason. He killed the DA's fiancée. He tried to get the citizens to blow each other up. This is not your fault."

"He's not that bad, honestly, he's not." Her speech had picked up pressure, as if she was trying to convince herself as much him. She probably was. "He's mentally ill, yes, but—"

"So am I, and even I can see that he's evil."

"You have trust issues."

"Are you serious?"

"Look, he doesn't do these things out of a desire to hurt people. To him, it's all a joke, see? He's just trying to show the world his point of view, and this is the only way he knows how."

"Are we talking about the same person?" If his jaw dropped any lower, it would come off. "Harley, don't you get it? He's trying to get you to see things the way he wants you to. He wants you to love him. That must hold some advantage to him."

"He doesn't know."

"What?"

"He doesn't know. How could I tell him? Can you imagine responding well to treatment if you know your doctor is thinking about how much she wants to run her fingers through your hair, to—"

"Oh God. I don't need to know this."

"Sorry." She looked miserable. "But you're the only one I can tell. I can't let him know, and if the other doctors found out I'd be removed from his case."

Now there was a plan. "Wouldn't that be for the best? If your feelings are conflicting you this much, maybe you should take a step back."

"I _can't. _I'm the only one who hasn't written him off yet. If anyone else has his case, he'll spend the rest of his life in a drug-induced coma!"

_And that would be a bad thing?_ "Well, you can't carry on like this. It's tearing you apart. What's more important, your well-being or his?"

"His," she muttered, looking down again.

"For the love of God. Harley, do I need to point out how unhealthy this is?"

"Don't bother. I feel awful enough already."

What Jonathan wanted more than anything else at that point was to shake some sense into her, to continue debating all of her points until she saw the light. But Harley looked so tragic sitting there, fighting back tears, that he couldn't do it. It was bad enough that this intelligent, attractive woman had fallen in love with an utter psychopath. The fact that the only person she could confide that to was another mental patient, that was depressing beyond belief.

_Damn it, I'm the only friend she's got right now. And if I drive her away, even if it's by telling the truth, she'll be alone. Even more vulnerable to him. God, I hate friendship._ So, hating himself for it, he put his hand on her shoulder, and told her that he was sorry. That everything would be all right.

And of course, as the rules of irony governed, things got much worse very quickly.


	15. Hugging

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks for the reviews! You guys really brighten the day, you know that?

* * *

Mondays were always the worst day of the week.

It shouldn't have made a difference what day it was, really, since they all blurred together when he was in Arkham. It wasn't as if the patients had weekends off, after all, or a work week to start. And it wasn't like Monday held anything particularly horrible; group therapy sessions were on Wednesday, and Joker visits tended to occur on Thursday nights. There was no reason for Monday to be the worst day of the week, but it still was, somehow.

Maybe it was the knowledge that a new week was starting, that he'd just lost another seven days of his life to this hellhole. Though, if that was the case, the depression should hit on Sundays. Maybe it was a response still in his system from his days as administrator. Whatever the reason, it still sucked.

And this Monday was no exception. He'd woken up in the middle of the night, somewhere between one and two, he guessed. Another nightmare. And he'd been unable to fall back asleep. Now here he was, counting the ceiling tiles for about the eight hundredth time and mentally cursing the Batman for his terror-inducing manner.

_I am requesting sleeping pills._ This was ridiculous. Sure, if they gave him anything, it was likely to be habit-forming, and he wasn't looking forward to another bout of withdrawal to deal with if he ever broke out again. Even so, that couldn't be any worse than this. The last time he'd slept through the night was when he'd been knocked out with morphine in the infirmary.

He could hear the echo of footsteps down the hall. Nothing new. Most night guards spent their shift pacing up and down their wards, both to keep from falling asleep and to keep an eye on all the room. He'd been hearing footsteps since he woke up. Still, these seemed faster. Louder too, and more frequent, like more than one person.

Jonathan sat up. This could be interesting.

The footsteps stopped at the far left end of the hall. He could just hear the sound of a door creaking open, a few seconds silence, and then the door slamming closed. The footsteps resumed, stopped again a few feet later. A door creaking open, then closed. Repeat.

_Searching the rooms?_ This _was _interesting. Either someone had broken out, or something had been stolen. Maybe both. He picked up his glasses, sliding them into place just as his door flung open.

He was blinded for a few seconds by the flashlight beam shining straight in his face. Squinting, he was able to make out three figures in the doorway, as the light moved to other corners of the room. "Why are you up?" one of them asked.

"You were slamming doors. It was rather loud."

"Anyone come through here?"

"Besides you?"

"He's not in here," the one with the light announced. "Let's go."

"You sure? Aren't they friends?"

"The whole ward's on lock down. If he's still here, he won't be able to get in." The door slammed shut, the click of the lock following.

_Ah._ Things had just moved from interesting to potentially dangerous. 'Aren't they friends?' That left three possible identities of the escapee: Nigma, Isley, or the Joker. And he doubted either of the first two would have made an escape plan without mentioning it. So the Joker was loose in the city. Joy.

On the other hand, better the Joker wreak havoc on Gotham than on him. And if it was the Joker they were looking for, Jonathan doubted he was still in Arkham. Sneaking around and hiding weren't his style. If it wasn't loud or explosive, the Joker wouldn't do it.

Well, good. He could carve up as many people as he wanted outside of the asylum. There went one of the main stress factors in Jonathan's life. Now he could go back to living as normal, without worrying about knife attacks or—

_Oh shit. Harley._ He couldn't imagine that she would take this well. She'd probably start blaming herself, God only knows why. Well, there went that. She was going to take this hard, he was sure. Nervous breakdown hard. If not worse. _Damn it, Joker. _Was that his plan? To make Harley love him and then abandon her? _Son of a bitch._

Jonathan was going to have to see her. It would be easier said than done, as the ward had been locked down, but he had to. He felt obligated, somehow, even though he'd warned her away from the Joker to begin with. _Damn friendship and its bewildering qualities._ She had better not do anything drastic before he could get to her. He had no idea how to handle it if she did.

* * *

He spent the next hour or so sitting by the door to his cell, waiting. After what felt like an eternity or so, the footsteps returned, accompanied by a creaking sound that could only be a breakfast cart. As a tray was shoved through the slot in his door, Jonathan stuck his hand in the space, holding it open. "Excuse me?"

"What?" The voice sounded annoyed.

"I'm feeling suicidal," he said, trying to sound as worked up as possible. It wasn't hard, after listening to depressed patients for years.

A sigh. "How suicidal?"

"Very. I think I should be seen, immediately, before I do something drastic."

There was a pause. "You're sure this can't wait?"

"I think if I'm left unattended for much longer you'll be filling out incident forms about my breaking my skull against the bed frame. Sorry."

There was another sigh, then a pause so long he started to fear this wouldn't work. Then he heard the lock turn, and found himself looking up at an extremely irritated orderly. "Well, hurry up."

"Thank you." He scrambled to his feet.

"Whatever."

* * *

They'd taken him to Leland first, but it hadn't been hard to get past her. All he had to do act anxious, let his voice crack a few times as he asked if he could please talk to his usual psychiatrist, and that was it. Her gullibility would have amused him, were it not for his concern over Harley.

She was waiting by the door when he came through, and he was taken aback by her appearance. Her hair was down, the first time he'd ever seen it that way, fingers twisting through it so tightly they were losing circulation. She was stiff all over, tense like he'd never seen her before, even when she'd been confessing her feelings for the Joker.

"Jonathan? Are you all right? What happened? Do you—"

He cut her off while it was still possible to get a word in edgewise. "I'm fine. I'm not suicidal, I made the whole thing up. I just wanted to see how you are."

He'd expected her to be surprised that he'd twisted the system in that way. Disappointed at least, if not annoyed. But if she felt any of those things, she didn't show it. "Thank God you're here! I think I'm losing it, Jonathan, I really do. I've never been this worried before. God, this is all my fault."

"No, it isn't." Harley, he realized, to his horror, was crying. Actually crying. How was he supposed to deal with that? "You didn't break him out. It was his choice."

"If I'd been doing my job right, he wouldn't have gone. Now he's alone and vulnerable out there—"

"Hardly."

"—completely at the mercy of Batman or any maniac on the streets—"

"I think he can take care of himself."

"—and it's my fault!" She wasn't just crying; she was sobbing. It was horrific, really. How was he supposed to handle this? Usually, when people cried around him, it was because he'd made them cry. He was not well-versed in the areas of comfort.

"Harley." Without thinking about it, he reached out and hugged her. She stared at him, surprised, him looking away, blushing. _This is _how _you hug, isn't it?_ It seemed right; at least, both of his arms were around her. He'd seen hugging before, but never tried it. It wasn't as easy as it looked. Well, she wasn't sobbing. That was something.

"Jonathan? What are you doing?"

"Er…hugging you. I think."

"Jonathan." She smiled. Only a bit, but it was better than nothing. "When you hug someone, your body is supposed to touch them."

"It is?" That seemed uncomfortably intimate.

"You're adorable. Look, it's like this." Harley stepped forward, closing the gap between them. "See?"

_So this is hugging? _He didn't much like it. Well, not at all, really. The last time someone had been this close to him, it had been to hold him underwater, and that wasn't an easy association to break. Still, if it was making her happy.

"Harley, this isn't your fault." How long did a hug last, anyway? Were they just going to hold each other indefinitely? This was awkward beyond reason. "You're a wonderful psychiatrist. And I'm not just saying that. You've helped me, haven't I?"

She was tearing up again. "You opened up to me because the Joker wanted you to."

"And that matters why? You're the one who said you didn't care why I was talking, as long as I was. Look at me, I'm hugging you. _Me_, the Scarecrow. Barely a month ago, touching me on the hand made me jump, and now I'm initiating hugs. You got me to see that not all humans are bastards. That even I have good qualities. You are _amazing _at what you do."

Harley was still sniffling, but she seemed to consider it. They were still hugging, him stiff, her holding him tightly. She used strawberry-scented shampoo, he noticed. She also didn't look as distressed, though that might be wishful thinking on his part.

"It's just…I'm so worried about him. I know you're afraid of him, but I love him, Jonathan. I do. And it's wrong, and unprofessional, but I can't help it. And…I've been holding back in our sessions, trying to hide my feelings from him. And now he's gone, and it feels like it's my fault. If I'd been doing my job correctly—"

"You _were_," he insisted. "Harley, if I'm a sign of how much you can do at full effort, than you had to have made a significant impact, even when you were holding back." He paused. He knew it was wrong to lie to her, but it was also wrong to let her be miserable. "That pen thing? Proves you made a connection with him, doesn't it? You _were_ helping him. It is not your fault that he left. If you insist on blaming someone besides him, blame the doctors who decided to lock him in solitary."

Her grip around him went even tighter. It was almost painful, to say nothing of the flashbacks it was causing. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He fought back the urge to push her away. He may be on the verge of a panic attack, but her happiness was more important.

"I really do love you, Jonathan. You're the best friend I've ever had."

_Poor you._

"It's—I'm so tense, it's like I'm being ripped apart. I just found out he'd broken out an hour ago, how am I supposed to last until he's brought back? If he's brought back at all."

"He will be." To his surprise, Jonathan found himself actually hoping for the Joker's return. That had to be a sign of the apocalypse, didn't it? Even if it was only to make her stop worrying. "He's always come back before, hasn't he?"

"Last time he was gone for three weeks. _Three weeks_," she repeated, as though he was deaf. "I've fallen apart after an hour. How am I supposed to last for three weeks?"

"I'm suicidal, remember?"

She stared. "What?"

"My excuse to get in here. The suicide thing? I was moments away from killing myself before I came here. That's rather serious, wouldn't you say?"

"And?"

"So serious that one session a week wouldn't be enough to keep me from hurting myself. I may not be a psychiatrist anymore, but don't you think spending as much time with me as you could would be a good idea?" Isley and Nigma wouldn't be happy, hearing he was suicidal and then not seeing him for a number of weeks. Ah, well. He could deal with that when the time came.

Harley smiled again. It seemed a little more genuine this time. "You're brilliant."

"I try."

"What would I do without you?"

"Make friends that aren't dangerous criminals?"

"Hey." She loosened one arm long enough to tap him on the nose, like a misbehaving pet. "Don't put yourself down. You're everything I could want in a friend."

"You have interesting tastes."

She laughed, hugging with renewed force as she did. He hadn't been this uncomfortable since they'd talked about his childhood, he felt like he was suffocating, and it was all he could do not to hyperventilate, but Harley was happy again. And that was all that mattered.


	16. Downfall

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: As always, thanks for the reviews. You're all wonderful people. Go ahead, pat yourselves on the back, you deserve it.

* * *

Thus two weeks passed, with Jonathan in Harley's office from the start of her shift until she went home at the end of the day, excluding her sessions with other patients. The time didn't exactly pass smoothly, but Harley wasn't having sobbing fits anymore, at least for the most part, which Jonathan took as a good sign. She was still pacing the room for hours on end and nearly ripping her hair out, but a small victory was a victory nonetheless.

"Harley?" he asked, on the fifteenth morning after the Joker's escape. "Can I ask you something?"

She glanced up from a stack of papers on her desk, which she'd been obsessively reorganizing for an hour or so. "Sure, I—how long have you been lying on my couch?"

"I don't know. The last half hour, maybe."

"I thought you hated those couches. Didn't you say the other day that they were just a way for doctors to tower over their patients?"

"They are, but you're not exactly psychoanalyzing me now, are you? Besides, it's comfortable." He didn't mention that he hadn't slept again last night. She didn't need to worry about his well-being on top of everything else. "Anyway. What is it about the Joker that you love?"

He'd shied away from mentioning the clown for the first few days, afraid of making her miss him even more. Strangely though, the opposite seemed to be the case. Every time the conversation shifted to her other patient, Harley visibly relaxed. It made no sense to Jonathan, since the Joker's situation was what was causing her stress in the first place, but then, nothing about her feelings for him made sense. Besides, as long as it worked, he didn't need to understand the mechanisms behind it.

She stopped shuffling, the tension easing out of her shoulders. "Well, that's a hard question. I've never really thought about why. I just do."

"There has to be some reason." _It's certainly not his sparkling personality. _Or was it? He didn't see how it could be, but he couldn't picture Harley driven by lust either. Maybe he acted differently around her. Jonathan _hoped_ he acted differently around her; the thought of Harley attracted to someone behaving the way the Joker did in his night visits turned his stomach.

"He makes me laugh," she said, after consideration.

"He makes you laugh?" That was it? He'd made her laugh when he hugged her, and she wasn't in love with him. What wasn't he getting here? Well, he wasn't getting any of it, but this in particular.

"I know, it's a bad reason to fall in love. But I've always been so serious. I never had a real relationship growing up, not even through college. I was too busy trying to prove myself, romance seemed like an unnecessary distraction. Have you ever felt that way?"

He tried shrugging, then remembered he was lying down. "I've never given it much thought, to be honest. I haven't avoided it, it's just never been a concern."

"Oh. Well, I've always been so uptight. Meeting a guy that can make me smile, make me laugh even…I know it shouldn't make such a huge impact, but it does."

"And that's why you love him?"

"Among other things. You two are the first patients I've had that actually care about me. I mean, I like helping other people, I do, but it's nice to know that someone's worried about me, for once."

"So, he cares about you and he makes you laugh." Jonathan considered it. "What makes that any different from a friend? Why is it love in his case, and not in your other friends'?"

Harley smiled, straightening the papers on her desk. "I don't know. You make it sound so rational. Falling in love isn't a choice, Jonathan, it just happens. If you fall in love, you'll see what I mean."

"If you say so." _If love makes homicidal maniacs seem like good boyfriend material, I don't want it._

She sighed, turning the window, tense again. It seemed to come in waves; she'd be nervous, he'd distract her for a few minutes, and then the cycle began again. "I hope he's all right."

"He'll be fine. He can take care of himself."

"And if he runs into the Batman? Do you know when the police first caught him, they let that maniac attack him while he was in the _prison_? You know, where the arrested are supposed to have rights? God only knows what could happen if they find each other again."

"They'll fight, the Bat will win, he'll come back here. That's what happens to every one of us, every time we break out." Realizing he probably sounded uncaring, Jonathan amended, "He'll be all right. The most that ever happens is a broken bone or two."

"Well, it shouldn't happen _at all._ Batman's killed five people, yet he's still running loose somehow. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't Harvey Dent loved in Gotham? You'd think they'd want to avenge him, instead of sweeping it under the rug."

"Batman catches people like us for the police, though."

"And that excuses it?" Her face was flushed with passion, her once inviting eyes gone cold. "Anyone thinking clearly can see that Batman should belongs in here just as much as any of the "super villains," if not more. But no, he makes their jobs easier, so it's all okay. Never mind that he's breaking the law too.

"You know what the Joker told me? The reason he tried to tear Gotham apart? It was Batman. He was inspired, he said, by this man standing for all the principles he wants to deconstruct. There wouldn't even be a Joker if it weren't for Batman, just a mentally ill person who believes that society is inherently evil, like you did. What's wrong with the world, when you can't show violence on cartoons because it might give kids ideas, but it's okay to let a vigilante run around with no thought of the effect he might have on the unbalanced?"

"Preaching to the choir, Harley," he said quickly, as she paused to breathe. He'd never seen her this worked up before, and thought it best to intervene before she started throwing things. "I'm on your side here."

"I mean, look at you!" she continued, as though he hadn't spoken. "He gave you brain damage. _Irreversible _brain damage. And did the police care? Obviously not."

"I don't think they knew," he muttered, wondering if he should get up and move any breakable objects in the office away from her.

"Well, they didn't bother to find out, did they? Just like they won't bother to charge the Batman for the injuries he's caused the criminals if they ever catch him. Dent, Maroni, the cops he killed, he'll pay for all those, but you guys won't even be mentioned. Bastards."

"Harley." He sat up, slowly, ready to duck if anything went flying. "Do you need a hug?"

"I'm not upset, Jonathan, I'm _pissed_."

"Can't you be both at once?" he asked cautiously, trying not to flinch.

She sighed. "It wouldn't kill you to get a little angry on your own behalf, you know. Don't you care that he'll never pay for what he did to you?"

"Yes, I do. Only I don't express it because I channel that anger into one of my brilliant but surely doomed plans for revenge."

"Ah." Her anger seemed to dissipate somewhat. At least, she was breathing regularly again. "This is probably the cue for me to tell you that it's inappropriate behavior, planning to poison someone."

"What, you're not going to?"

"Actually, I'd be happy to see him get his comeuppance. Don't do it though. It's not nice and you'll only get beat up again."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

* * *

"Jonathan?"

Hearing his name woke him up somewhat, the following poke to the shoulder finishing the job. He lay there for a second or so, eyes still closed, before remembering what being awoken in the middle of the night usually meant.

He bolted upright, shuffling backwards until he was against the wall. "What do you want?"

"Relax." He couldn't make out the face, but the voice was unmistakable, and remarkably, not the Joker.

"Nigma?"

"Yes. And before you freak out again, Pamela's with me."

"Hi," Isley said, from the foot of the bed.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, taking his glasses, which Nigma had been holding out.

"Sorry. I know you hate being woken up like this, but we were worried, and we didn't know how else to contact you."

"How are you?" Isley asked.

"I'm fine."

"Fine?" Nigma repeated. "No one's seen you for two weeks and the rumor is you were contemplating suicide again. In what world is that fine?"

"In the world where it's not true? I wasn't suicidal, that was just my excuse to see Har—"

Pain exploded across his face as Isley's hand connected with it, slamming his head into the wall. "How many times do I have to do that," she asked, voice deadly quiet, "before you realize that worrying us isn't cool?"

"Pam, don't hit him." Nigma held up a hand to block hers, already winding back for another strike.

"Why the hell not?"

"I'm sure he has a good reason." He paused. "You do, right?"

"No, I just did it to fuck with you," he said, massaging his head. He was still seeing stars, probably not a good sign. "Of course I had a reason. I was keeping a friend from a nervous breakdown. That good enough?"

"You were what?"

"Harley. My psychiatrist." He blinked, shaking his head. The stars were gone, but his ears were still ringing. "She's been about three seconds away from hysterics ever since the Joker escaped. I was trying to keep her from stressing herself into a heart attack."

"Ah." Isley lowered her hand. "Yeah, that's fine. But you should have told us."

"Sorry."

"You know what that means?" Nigma asked brightly. "I won the bet."

She scowled. "You don't know that. Not yet."

"What bet?" Jonathan asked, sure he'd regret it once he knew the answer.

"That Quinzel's head over heels for the Joker. I'm right, aren't I?" Nigma smiled. "That's why she took his leaving so hard. Told you she had that look, didn't I, Pam?"

"I'm not paying up until there's confirmation. Well, Jonathan?"

His head was spinning, partly from pain and partly from confusion. "You were betting on Harley? You don't even know her."

"I know when a woman acts the way I've seen her act, there's only one reason for it," Nigma said. "So, am I right?"

"I'm not going to tell you her private—"

"Well, that's as good as a yes." Isley sighed. "Fine, you win. Word of advice, Jonathan? Never bet against the Riddler."

"Truer words were never spoken." Nigma's smile stretched to near-Joker proportions. "And now that this incident's behind us, we can go back to life as usual."

"Behind us?" Jonathan stared. "I'm still going to be with Harley around the clock until the Joker's back."

His companions exchanged a look. "But he is back. Haven't you heard?"

"What?!"

"Around seven tonight. Batman brought him in. How early did you fall asleep?"

"Early. But that's not the point. He's back? How is he?"

Isley gaped. "I'm sorry, are you actually concerned about his well-being?"

"_I'm _not. Harley will be. Is he all right?"

"Nothing worse than usual. Concussion, I think, dislocated shoulder. But Quinzel already knows. They called her, I'll bet. Her patient, you know? I saw her rushing down the hall around seven thirty."

"How did she look?"

"Like she was stuck between sobbing and ripping someone's head off. She really fell for the guy, huh?"

_Shit. _Well, it was only to be expected. Nigma was right, after all, the Joker was Harley's patient. It wasn't as if his injuries could be hidden from her. Still, there was about as much chance of her taking this well as Gotham having a zero percent crime rate. _As long as she doesn't do anything insane, like confess her love to him, things will be fine. If I talk to her tomorrow, she can scream to me about the whole thing and that'll be the end of it. I hope._

And that was the moment, because fate hated him that much, that they heard the footsteps rushing down the hall. Another group, even bigger than the one from the night of the Joker's escape, by the sound of it. Nigma and Isley stared at each other, then at him, eyes wide with panic.

"Shit!"

"What do we do?"

"Hide! Quick!"

Pointless, really. The room was designed with a lack of concealed spaces in mind. They were halfway under the bed, both stuck, when the door flew open.

"And what do you think you're doing?"

"Uh…" Nigma's voice was muffled. "Hide and seek?"

"Don't play games with me," the leader of the group growled, looking as if he'd like nothing more than to break one, or maybe all of their necks. "Where did they go?"

"Where did _who _go?" Jonathan asked, bewildered.

"As if you don't know. I'm sure you're all in the same room just for kicks, huh? The Joker and his accompliance. The girl dressed as a jester. Where are they?"

"Accompliance?" Isley asked, reemerging from under the sheets.

Nigma followed a second later, looking just as lost. "Jester?"

They turned questioningly to Jonathan, whose face had gone white as a ghost. "_Harley._"


	17. Lorazepam

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks, as always, for the reviews! Also, regarding this chapter, thanks is due to my friend Colton for giving me a copy of _Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass_. Not only is it an awesome story, it's also way more helpful than Wikiquote in writing Tetch's dialogue.

* * *

Nigma yawned, his steps faltering a bit, shoulder brushing against the wall. He'd gotten maybe a hour of sleep, once they'd let him get back to his room. The three of them had been dragged to the administrator's office where he and Isley had spent about three hours trying to prove that they hadn't taken part in the Joker's escape. Once the doctors were finally convinced that they'd been up to nothing more sinister than visiting a suicidal friend, they were allowed to go. Jonathan had still been there when he'd left. For all Nigma knew, he was still there now.

Exhaustion didn't seem to cover his current physical state. Was this how Jonathan felt all the time? He made a note never to wake him up again, that would be cruel. And it was all for nothing. That bothered Nigma far more than it should have. After all, he had no connection to Quinzel and shouldn't have cared.

But thanks to her, and the Joker, he'd lost sleep and hadn't even gotten any good riddles out of it. The whole thing was so _predictable. _The woman had fallen head over heels for the Joker, which surely had been the clown's plan all along, and broken him out. There was no subtlety, no elegance to it. It was all so basic. Not even pondering the Joker's motivations for breaking the doctor's mind was worth it, as he didn't need a motive. He just did things.

"Why, Mary Ann, what are you doing out here?" a voice behind him asked. Nigma sighed, turning to find a pair of narrowed brown eyes staring at him from under long blond bangs.

"Hello, Jervis." It was a shame Arkham didn't allow its inmates caffeine. He was going to need coffee to put up with Lewis Carroll speak while running on empty. "I take it you were the only one at group therapy today?"

"Explain yourself."

"Pam and I went to check on Jonathan last night, we were in his room when the Joker escaped, the guards found us, we were being questioned about it for the past few hours, oh, and Jonathan's psychiatrist went insane and is apparently the Joker's new sidekick." he said, in one breath. "I think that about covers it."

"How queer everything is today," Jervis said, voice hushed with surprise.

"Tell me about it."

Pamela and Jonathan were in the rec room, her hand on the back of his head, watching _Wheel of Fortune._ Nigma sat beside them, glancing at the screen. It was unbelievably obvious, but he didn't have the energy to get into it with Pam. "How long did they keep you for, Jonathan?"

"Eh?"

Nigma turned to regard him. Jonathan was staring forward, in the general direction of the television, but not focused on it. His eyes were also half closed, and his expression totally blank. Nigma turned to Pamela.

"They sedated him?"

"Enough to take down a horse," she said disgustedly. She was still stroking Jonathan's hair with one hand, the other clenched so hard her knuckles were white.

"Why?"

"Well, I don't know all the details—we didn't talk long before _this_," she unclenched her hand, waved it at him, "took effect. Basically, after we left, they questioned him about Quinzel—and it was definitely her, by the way, the license plate on the getaway car proved it, they told him. Then the Commissioner questioned him, and after that, they decided this whole "psychiatrist gone mad" thing might be affecting him emotionally-"

"No, really?"

"Yeah, tell me about it." She rolled her eyes. "I think the standards for a Ph.D are slipping, don't you? Anyway, so they decided they might as well actually do their job and treat him, so they took him to Leland's office-"

"Bitch," Jonathan broke in, voice slurred. They turned to him, waiting, but he didn't go on.

"And then?"

"To make a long story short, Jonathan wasn't quite in the mood to talk to her, as he just indicated, and told her so. I'm not sure what he said, exactly—that was about the point in his story where the drugs really kicked in—but whatever it was, it made her angry enough to do this."

"Damn." Typical psychiatrists. Grasped when there was emotional turmoil but couldn't understand that it wasn't best to discuss it after depriving the patient of sleep. "You were right, Jonathan."

"Eh?" He moved his head in what Nigma guessed was an attempt to face him.

"You were right," he said slowly, loudly. "Leland is a bitch."

"Ah."

"Off with her head," Jervis suggested, and for once, his words didn't detract from his meaning in the least.

"Exactly." Pamela sighed, putting her hand over Jonathan's. "I don't even want to think about how upset he'll be when this wears off. He really cared about her, didn't he?"

"Enough to spend two straight weeks in her office all day. I never thought he'd willingly spend time with a psychiatrist."

"Do you think he was in love with her?" she asked. The words were almost whispered, which Nigma didn't see the point of. He doubted Jonathan understood half of what they were saying in his current state.

"Loved her, yes. In love with her, no." Reading emotions was a talent of his. After all, they were riddles in a way, with body language and the like as clues. And Jonathan's had never been difficult. Most mental patients wore their hearts on their sleeves; he was no exception. If he'd been in love, Nigma would have known. "I think she was his first real friend."

"I beg your pardon?" Her eyes flashed.

"It isn't respectable to beg," Jervis muttered. She shot him a look, then turned back to Nigma.

"His first real friend? So what are we?"

"His first real friend that didn't dress in costume and commit crimes. At least, she didn't when they first met," he amended.

She scoffed. "Yeah, the "good" role model set such a great example."

"Well, he did seem somewhat better adjusted lately. There goes that, I guess."

"Hey, if it means no more soap operas, I don't have a problem with it."

"Wasn't…" Jonathan muttered. "Wasn't my idea…"

"Yeah, you can't blame that on him. I came up with that."

"Fine then, I blame you." She ruffled Jonathan's hair. "Either way, I'm just glad we can get back to normal television."

"Agreed." They watched for a moment, as one of the contestants rolled and got bankruptcy. "The answer's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," by the way."

"If Jonathan wasn't sitting between us," she said, scowling, "I'd be hitting you now."

"Lucky me, then."

"I hate you."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."


	18. Visitors

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. I did just buy a nice _Dark Knight _calendar, but that doesn't count.

AN: Sorry about the delay on this chapter! I was running around a Halloween party telling people how I got my scars all last night. Then Batman showed up and I had to tell him he completed me. Anyway, I just realized that if I consider one day without a chapter to be a delay than it'll be interesting to see how I handle November, when I'll be NaNoWriMo-ing and probably only able to update once a week. I better start packing now, because I'll be sending myself on a big guilt trip.

Anyway, thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Being sedated, or at least, being sedated this heavily, was like being in a fog. A fog so thick that you didn't dare to try walking, for fear of losing yourself like you'd lost sight of everything else, so heavy that it was pressing on your body, keeping you immobile, suffocating your mind. That's how Jonathan would have described it, had he that mastery of language while under its effects.

As it was, his current view of it was more along the lines of "sleep…need sleep." That was the worst thing about the drugs. They drained energy, making all but the simplest movement impossible, and even that unpleasant, and made him want nothing more than to pull a Sleeping Beauty and nap for the next hundred years. But like a sick joke, those same drugs kept him awake. He didn't know if that was how they were supposed to work, or this was a bad reaction, and he didn't care either way. All he wanted was sleep. Were he able to control more than his most basic motor functions, he'd probably slam his head until the wall until he was unconscious. Even a skull fracture would be better than this.

It had been a week and a half now, since he'd last slept. Well, there were the half-hour or so periods in the early morning when the drugs would finally wear off and he'd start to drift off, before the morning staff came in and injected him again. He wasn't sure how much sleep he was actually getting in those periods, but it couldn't be more than fifteen minutes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jonathan knew that was incredibly unhealthy, but he was both too tired and too drugged to care.

How long could a person survive without sleep anyway? He vaguely recalled knowing that once, but it seemed to have left his mind now, like all other unessential information. Unessential, in this case, meaning "anything not needed for survival." He could not go on like this, that much he knew. The next time he saw Leland, he'd beg if he had to. Anything to make the drugs stop. Once, that might have tortured him, begging to her, acknowledging her control. Now, he doubted any torture could compare to this.

If there was one good thing to come of this, as he realized in brief periods of lucidity, it was that he wasn't worried about Harley anymore. He couldn't imagine how wild his emotions would be if they weren't being regulated, knowing his closest friend had gone mad and was running around with the most dangerous man in Gotham. Nigma and Isley seemed to have sensed this, and had kept him up to date on the Joker's crimes over the past week and a half. Pre-sedation, it would have angered him, to have the two sitting there, reading newspaper articles to him, as slowly as one might to a small child. Now he only felt gratitude, when he felt anything at all.

They said she was calling herself Harley Quinn now. In the five seconds he'd been able to focus his attention on that information, he'd almost groaned. It was a bad joke. But then, that's what the situation itself seemed to be, a horrible, unfunny joke. Harley was supposed to be the sane one. She was supposed to help patients, not break them out and go on crime sprees. He'd thought she was smarter, better than this. She'd always seem so…incorruptible.

She had cared about him. For the first time in his life, it seemed, someone besides himself had actually cared if he was alive or not, actually preferred the world with him in it. How could someone that wonderful, that saint like, be so utterly broken by a disfigured man in make-up? It made no sense.

And so it was almost preferable, being too drugged to think. If he could think, he'd just end up upsetting himself, worrying to the point of illness. If they ever stopped the sedatives, he was not looking forward to that. If there wasn't the risk of death by sleep deprivation, he'd prefer to stay on them forever. Even the muttering in his head had stopped, apparently overcome by the drugs.

It was hard to sense time in his cell, with its lack of a clock or windows, but he guessed it was around four in the morning. The drugs should be wearing off soon. Fifteen minutes of blessed relief until it started all over again. And there was sleeping, and there was drugging, the eleventh day. Or was it the tenth? Time blurred together. He couldn't tell anymore. Not that it mattered anyway.

His door creaked open and Jonathan forced himself to look up. No one came in this early, usually. Maybe it wasn't around four. His sense of time was off, after all. Either way, it didn't matter. He was just going to get drugged again. Though, without sleeping this time. That wasn't good.

Jonathan was intrigued, as intrigued as he could be, anyway, when rather than a nurse or an orderly, a woman dressed as a jester came through the door. He would have raised his eyebrows, if he could, and settled on making himself focus on her. She crossed the room towards him, a finger over her lips. A woman dressed as a jester…why did that sound familiar? Something about it seemed important, but he couldn't remember what.

"Hiya, Jonathan!" The words were whispered, yet still bright and perky.

Ah. There it was. The voice. It sounded like Harley. He supposed it could be her, though it was hard to tell from the mask around the eyes and the white paint on the face. He also supposed he would care quite a bit about this, if he could. "Eh?"

She held out a gloved hand. "Well, come on! You wanna blow this popsicle stand, don't you?"

He didn't have nearly the energy to figure out what that meant. "Neh?"

"Escape? Leave? Get outta here and never look back? Hellooo? Anyone home?" She waved her hand in front of his face, watching his eyes slowly follow, and frowned. "Geez. Whadda they gotcha on, horse tranquilizers?"

"Uh."

"Can you get up?"

He shook his head.

She sighed, stood up, and walked over to the door. "Mistah J?"

"What is it, Harley-girl?" To what would have been Jonathan's horror, had it not been buried under the medication, the Joker walked into the room. Great. This was leading nowhere good, fast.

How did they get in here, anyway? Arkham's security was bad, yes, but how could it possibly be so bad that two monster clowns could come waltzing in without being apprehended? He suspected it would make no sense if he wasn't drugged. As things were, he went with it.

"Can you carry him, puddin'? I don't think he can get up."

_Oh, hell no, _Jonathan thought and could not manage to say. Before he could force himself to react, he found himself in the Joker's arms, lifted out of his bed. "How ya been, scaredy cat?"

The Joker had his make-up on. Jonathan realized this was the first time he'd seen him with it in real life, aside from the night he'd used blood as lipstick. It made him look like a leper on top of the scars, and there were dark stains on his clothes looked and smelled like blood. _So that's how they got past security._ "I…I don't like you."

"Oh, that's friendly."

Then they were moving, following Harley through the door. At the end of the hall lay a guard in a pool of blood. Jonathan wasn't sure if the man was dead and didn't care enough to take a closer look. "Where…are we…going?"

"To Narnia," the Joker offered. "We need your help to fight the White Witch."

Harley giggled. "We're goin' back to our secret lair," she explained, brushing Jonathan's hair out of his face as they walked. "I figured you'd be happier with us than in here."

He summoned up enough energy to shoot her a look. It was exhausting.

"You scared that you'll worry your friends?" she guessed. "I left 'em notes explaining we'd kidnapped you, so don't freak out. They won't blame you."

_Oh, because they'll handle that information _so _well. _He pictured Isley and Nigma immediately breaking out to hunt him down. On second thought, they wouldn't be crazy enough to cross the Joker, friends or not.

They were outside now, the air cool and wonderful. The best thing about breaking out of Arkham, he'd always thought, were the little things they took for granted when they weren't prisoners. Things like fresh air, or a good look at the stars. It would have been a perfect moment, had it not been for the drugs and the clown.

He heard a car door open, and turned his head to see Harley standing before a van. "Where should I put Raggedy Ann?" the Joker asked, lifting him slightly higher. "Ya wanna try strapping him to a seat?"

She considered it. "How fast are you plannin' on drivin'?"

"Uh…I could go slow, if ya want."

"Just lay him in the backseat, then."

His view of the night sky abruptly shifted to a view of the van's roof. The vehicle shook slightly as his companions stepped inside. The engine roared to life, and they were off. The first turn nearly sent him to the floor.

"Puddin'?"

"Yes?"

"Slower, remember?"

"Ah. Yeah. Sorry."

Jonathan rubbed the back of a hand across his forehead, which had slammed into the seat in front of him. _Wait a second…_ He stopped, staring at his hand as if he'd never seen it before. He'd been rubbing his head, which meant he raised his arm, which meant he could raise his arm, which meant…_The drugs are wearing off. Thank God._

"Ya okay, Jonny?"

"Brilliant."

"Good."

He spent five minutes or so marveling over his regained dexterity, before the lack of sleep caught up with him. Even without the drugs, it was hard to worry about his current predicament when he hadn't sleep in over a week. He doubted anything less than the arrival of Batman would worry him at that moment. Not even the Joker, currently singing something ridiculous with Harley accompanying, bothered him. He drifted off in minutes and dreamed of bats.


	19. Lullaby

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. Nor do I own the song in this chapter, "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park." It's Tom Lehrer's.

AN: So I got up today intending to do schoolwork, and ended up with the longest chapter yet. I still have no idea how that happened. Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

There had been times, many, many times, since she'd broken the Joker out of Arkham when Harley regretted her decision. Maybe regretted was too strong a word; it was less remorse than disbelief at her own actions. Whatever the right term was, this was one of those times.

They were staying in an abandoned apartment that the Joker had found during his last breakout. Harley didn't know and didn't want to think about what had happened to the previous tenants, but the fact that it was still full of their belongings and the suspicious stains on the floor made it hard to avoid her mind drifting there.

She sat down on the arm of a couch, where Jonathan was lying, asleep. Harley sighed. _How am I supposed to explain things to him?_ She knew he'd feel betrayed, her taking off without giving him warning. What was she going to tell him? 'Sorry I didn't give you a heads up, the whole thing was spur of the moment?' Oh, he'd just love that.

But she hadn't planned it, really. When she'd gotten the call that the Joker had been returned to Arkham, Harley had fully intended to keep her feelings hidden, and get back to helping her patient as usual. But seeing him lying there in his cell, straitjacketed, staring up at her with eyes that didn't quite focus, thanks to a Bat-induced concussion, that was too much.

She'd told him everything. Just dropped down beside him and let it all out. Her love for him, her guilt over that love, her hatred for Batman and the rest of the Arkham staff. All of it. Afterward she'd burst into tears, afraid to even look at him, for fear of his reaction. Disgust, or anger, or something worse. But when he had responded, it was the one thing she'd never anticipated. He told her he understood. And that he loved her back.

After that it was surprisingly clear what she had to do. Insane, but clear. Like the ice around the snow queen's heart melted in that old fairy tale, her inhibitions about breaking the law dissolved. It was wrong legally, yes, but it was the right thing to do.

The Joker wasn't insane. He didn't hear voices, or believe there were conspiracies against him. He knew the difference between right and wrong, though he chose to disregard it. The closest thing to madness about him was his obsession with Batman, and if he could just work that out, Harley believed he'd be a normal, if amoral person. Someone who could be with her.

But he wasn't just going to get over it. The entire reason the Joker persona existed was the Batman. The war between them would only stop when one of them died. And she wasn't going to let it be her love. So she'd help him unconditionally on his quest to destroy Batman. And once it was over, they would be together. They'd have to go into hiding, yes, probably overseas, but living her life under a false name and appearance was a small price to pay to be with him.

Not that she'd told any of this to the Joker. He wasn't fond of plans, so letting him know she'd plotted their lives out probably wouldn't go over well. And she was still uneasy with parts of it; helping the Joker triumph over Batman would mean assisting a murder. The murder of an outlaw, a killer himself, but it was still taking a life. Not to mention the lives the Joker would certainly take in their quest. The road to paradise was going to be littered with dead bodies, and that turned her stomach.

She regarded Jonathan. He'd slept for the past day and a half now, not that she could blame him. It made her feel a little better about breaking into Arkham, knowing they'd treated her patient like this. What could he possibly have done to warrant that amount of sedatives? He was a criminal, yes, but having spent time with him, it was hard to imagine him doing anything more nefarious than forgetting to wipe his shoes on the mat. She understood now why he hated psychiatrists.

_Jonathan…_ He was another part of the situation that made her uneasy. It was right to have broken him out, one look at his current state convinced her of that, but even so. Unlike the Joker, he was mentally ill. And would have a much better shot at redemption, should he try it. Now here she was, giving him perfect examples of inappropriate, illegal behavior. She didn't want to think about the effect it would have on his well-being. How was she going to convince him crime was wrong now? 'Oh, Jonathan, Puddin' and I are going to go blow up a retirement home. By the way, you should stop hurtin' people, it isn't nice.' Yeah, that would work.

He was shivering. She wondered if she should get him another blanket, and brushed her hand against his face to test his temperature. He was warm. No, more than warm, almost burning.

_Damn. _Withdrawal? It was only to be expected, given the massive drug dose he'd been getting, but she hadn't expected it to set in so fast. Withdrawal mixed with sleep deprivation. That wouldn't turn out well.

She went into the bathroom, rooting through the medicine cabinet. Amidst the various pills and products the previous tenants had used, and the make-up she and the Joker had begun storing there, she found a bottle of aspirin. She dumped two of the pills in her hand and headed back to the couch, stopping in the kitchen on the way for a glass of water.

He was still shivering and asleep when she returned. "Jonathan?"

Nothing.

She shook him gently. "Jonathan?" A little harder.

His eyes opened, with the glassy, dull look of one with a fever. "Harley?" The shaking hadn't stopped. She couldn't tell if it was fever chills or withdrawal tremors.

"Morning, Jonathan." She tried not to let her concern come through in her voice. The last thing he needed right now was anxiety on top of everything else. "I have pills that I need you to take. Can you sit up?"

He could, though it was a slow, laborious process that seemed to use most of his energy. "My head hurts," he muttered, turning away from the light.

Harley reached over to the wall and flipped the switch off. "I know. The aspirin will help. Here." She held them out, watched as he took it. Aspirin would only combat the fever, and the ache he was surely feeling by now. She didn't want to think about what would happen when the other symptoms showed up.

"Do you think you can eat something?" she asked as he handed the glass back. "It would help you feel better."

He did not look enthusiastic about the idea. "I could try."

Harley rummaged through the cabinets until she happened across a can of soup. She would have liked to give him something with more substance, but he probably didn't have it in him to eat something solid. Besides, the cupboards and fridge were near bare. She'd have to go shopping sometime soon. Harley imagined herself walking around a grocery in her jester costume and giggled.

She'd just started the microwave when the Joker stumbled into the kitchen, make-up and hair even more disheveled than usual. "Why are ya up so early?"

Harley glanced at the wall clock. "It's half an hour 'til noon, Mistah J."

"Like I said. Early."

He was adorable when he was tired. She closed the space between them in several large, nearly bouncing strides, and kissed him on the forehead. He responded by kissing her on the mouth. Passionately. Before their relationship, she'd never thought that kissing someone with gingivitis would be appealing. Now, her opinion had changed.

They were interrupted by the microwave beeping. Harley pulled back. "I have to…" she trailed off abruptly, having glanced down to see half the buttons on her shirt were undone, and the Joker working on the other half. "Uh…how did you do that without my noticing?"

"Magic."

"Puddin', Jonathan's in the other room."

"He can watch. I don't mind."

She laughed. "Well, he's also sick. And I need to get that," she indicated the microwave, "to him before he can fall asleep again."

"Fine," he said with the tone of a child being sent to bed early. "What's wrong with him, anyway?"

"Withdrawal," she said, refastening the buttons.

The Joker whistled. "Oh, _that'll _be fun."

They returned to the living room to find Jonathan awake and examining his surroundings with a detached, feverish stare. "This isn't Narnia."

Joker shrugged. "Ya got me. It's actually the, uh, Chamber of Secrets. Watch out for snakes."

"Basilisks," Harley corrected, sitting with Jonathan on the couch.

"Whatever." He sat on the floor beside them, flipping on the TV. "Let's see how many news stations we're on."

"He likes to keep a tally," she explained. "The most is six, so far. Soup?"

Jonathan stared at it. "I guess."

She got around three-fourths of the bowl into him before he fell asleep again. Not even the Joker's loud, often vulgar commentary regarding the stations that weren't covering their latest exploits was enough to keep him up. Nor was the noise when the Joker decided they should return to the kitchen, and finish what they'd started. And that, while great as far as her modesty was concerned, was not a good sign.

* * *

By the next morning his condition had deteriorated into violent tremors, vomiting, and extreme sensitivity to light when he was awake. And the hallucinations. Harley had never tried getting someone who was convinced he was seven years old and she was his abusive great-grandmother to drink water before, and she never wanted to repeat the experience again. Still, it could be worse. At one point, she had the Joker take over for her, and Jonathan had decided his new caretaker was the Batman. Her ears were still ringing from that one.

He spent most of the time asleep however. It meant Harley couldn't get him to eat or drink, but it also meant, for the most part, quiet, which she was ashamedly grateful for. And appropriately, there was karmic retribution for her gratitude, in the form of Jonathan's night terrors, which were still around, if not stronger than ever.

Like now. Harley's eyes opened as she heard the screaming, ignoring her body's protests to go back to sleep. She glanced at the alarm clock, its letters glowing red in the dark. Two twenty-one in the morning. Lovely. Beside her, the Joker shifted in his sleep, but remained otherwise unaffected. _Lucky._

She forced herself out of the bed, lifting her robe from the floor and wrapping it around her. She closed the bedroom door behind her and navigated her way to the living room by the feel of the walls. Jonathan was still screaming when she got there, thrashing around on the couch, eyes open but unseeing.

_Someone is going to hear this and call the cops, _she thought wearily, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Well, probably not. If anyone was around to call the cops, they'd have done so during the day. Either the neighbors were great at ignoring things, or the rest of the building was empty too. Probably the latter. She wondered if the Joker had gotten rid of everyone else and shuddered at the thought.

"Jonathan?" That was the worst thing about night terrors, she decided as she grabbed his shoulders, to keep him from injury. No way to wake the person up. They had to come out of it on their own and when they did, they wouldn't even remember it. Lucky. "Jonathan, it's all right. You're safe."

He stopped screaming, which she knew was the result of the dream ending and not anything she'd said. Either way, it was a good thing. Nor was he twisting around anymore, the trembling had returned to its normal levels. _Good. _Now if she could just slip back into bed, maybe he'd be fine for the rest of the—

He moaned, of course, right as she was starting to get up. She sat back down. _Damn it. _"Jonathan?"

Another moan. So he'd moved from night terrors to regular nightmares, it seemed. Which he could also scream as a result of. Joy.

Harley sighed, then got on the couch beside him, lifting him into her arms. She tried rocking back and forth slightly, which wasn't likely to do any good, but then, she was at her wits' end. "Come on, Jonathan. You're fine. Just sleep."

Her efforts were rewarded with a moan, again. Great. Completely out of other ideas, she tried singing. _Music to soothe the savage beast, right? _Though in her opinion, her voice was more likely to provoke savage beasts. "Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green—"

"Isn't it 'rosemary's green'?" the Joker asked from behind her.

She jumped. As much as she could jump with Jonathan on her lap, anyway. He moaned in response. "When did you come out here?"

He pursed his lips, considering. "Sometime between the shrieking and the groaning."

"Ah. Sorry."

He shrugged. "It's not like I sleep much at night anyway. But Harley? This," he waved a hand at Jonathan. "This is why we're not having children."

"Okay." She did not add that infants, cry as they might, wouldn't go through the horrors of withdrawal. At least, not if the parents were doing their job correctly. "Where did you hear it as 'rosemary's green?"

"Dunno. Isn't that something ya sing to a little girl, anyway, about becoming a queen? I mean, he's gay but not flaming."

"What makes you think he's gay?"

The Joker rolled his eyes. "Puh-_lease. _I can tell these things."

"All right…" It wasn't worth getting into. She couldn't tell if he was serious anyway. "What about Brahms Lullaby?"

"The one about waking up if God wills it? Creepy."

"Rock A Bye Baby?"

"Even worse."

"The Mockingbird Song?"

"Sung to a spoiled brat that oughta be smacked upside the head."

"Teddy Bear's Picnic?"

"If ya wanna add demonic bears to whatever he's dreaming about, then yeah."

Harley sighed. "All the Pretty Little Horses?"

"Dunno that one."

"Good. Using it." She resumed rocking her trembling friend. "Hush a bye, don't you cry. Go to sleep, my little baby. When you wake you shall have all the pretty little horses. Pintos and bays, dapples and grays, all the pretty little horses."

Joker clicked his tongue. "What is it about kid's songs and offering them all sorts of unreasonable things? And people wonder why they grow up with an entitlement complex."

"I don't know. It seems like it's working, anyway." Well, honestly, they'd probably just waited the nightmare out, but he'd stopped moaning, anyway. "Momma loves, Daddy loves, oh how they love their little baby. When you wake you shall have all the pretty little horses. Pintos and bays, dapples and grays, all the pretty little horses." She stopped rocking, waited a minute. "I think he's all right."

"Good." He stood up. "How long does this withdrawal thing usually last?"

She eased Jonathan off of her, slowly. "About three or four days."

"Well, two down."

They headed back to the bedroom. Miraculously, there was no more screaming for the rest of the night.

* * *

And because things could never be simple, the next afternoon they ran out of aspirin.

She had to go get more, as the alternative would have been letting the fever fry Jonathan's brain. It hadn't fully hit her how isolated from society she had to be now, as it did when she was scanning the shelves of a pharmacy, hat covering her hair and sunglasses obscuring her face. _I'll have to hide like this until Batman's dead, _she realized, _until we can get out of the country, or Gotham at least. And that's going to take years._ Great.

To make things even more disconcerting, the Joker had insisted she take one of his gag guns to ward away anyone who might recognize her. Sure, it only fired a flag reading "BANG," but its weight in her pocket was all too well a reminder of how violent and dangerous life had become. _What was I thinking? _she wondered, despondent, until she remember her activities with 'Mistah J' in the kitchen yesterday. _Oh yeah._

She returned to find that Jonathan was not lying on the couch. _Shit. _Considering who she'd left him with, he'd probably been thrown out of one of the windows. She loved the Joker, but he was rather…temperamental.

"Puddin'?"

From somewhere in the apartment, she heard him answer, in song. "So Sunday, if you're free, why don't ya come with me, and we'll poison the pigeons in the park."

"Mistah J?" She followed the sound of his voice.

"And maybe we'll do in a squirrel or two, while we're poisoning pigeons in the park."

He seemed to be in the bathroom. She heard splashing sounds, which confirmed the suspicion. This didn't bide well. Harley sped up. She didn't think he would kill her friend, but this was the Joker she was talking about. "Puddin', have you see Jonathan anywh-"

"We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment, except for the few we take home to experiment. My pulse will be quickenin' with each drop of strych'nine we feed to a pigeon. It just takes a smidgen to poison a pigeon in the park!"

He finished as she ran into the bathroom, nearly slipping as she skidded to a halt in a puddle on the floor. Jonathan was there, in the bath, though not drowned. Harley blinked at the sight before her, even rubbed her eyes a few times, but it was still there.

The Joker was washing Jonathan's hair.

_What the hell?_

He waved a hand covered in soap bubbles. "Hello, Harley. Everything go okay?"

"Yes," she said slowly, as her brain started to function again. "What are you doing?"

"Well, Jonny here had a seizure—"

"_What?_"

"Relax. Just a little one. Anyway, he was sick all over himself, and I thought you'd appreciate it if I cleaned him up."

"Oh. Thank you." She pulled the toilet seat down and sat, headache coming on. Seizures weren't uncommon during withdrawal, but they were never good. "Has he been all right since?"

"Aside from the moaning. Ya know, I don't think he likes water." The Joker tilted Jonathan's head back, rinsing his hair. "I tried pouring it on him to get the shampoo out and he threw a fit."

"Uh-huh?" She didn't tell him he was right about the water. He'd probably find it amusing to taunt Jonathan with that.

"Yeah, I couldn't get him to stop screaming. That's when I started singing. I think it worked. That, or he fell asleep. Hand me a towel, wouldya?"

She ended up helping him carry Jonathan into the bedroom, where they gave him some of the Joker's clothes, as his own were still covered in vomit. They were too big, comically so, but it was the best they had to work with. He lay at the foot of the bed, still sleeping, as Harley and the Joker leaned against the pillows at the opposite end.

"I've never seen you be…paternal before," she said, running her fingers through his green-blond hair.

"Full of surprises, I guess."

"I like it. It's sweet." She leaned in to kiss him, and when the kiss finished, she was lying beneath him, his hand at the zipper of her jeans. "Puddin', what are you doin'?"

"Expressing affection."

She put her hand on top of his, halting its movement. "Jonathan's right there!"

"He's asleep."

"He could wake up."

"Then he'll learn where babies come from. Like he understands anything that's going on anyway."

"We can't do this," she protested. The Joker arched a brow, and kissed her again. _Well, maybe we could._

"He's not gonna wake, Harley-girl."

He didn't.


	20. Reassurance

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. Damn it.

AN: Thanks for the reviews, as always.

* * *

Jonathan was aware that he was waking up, slowly, and he didn't like it at all. He was no longer exhausted; he wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but it seemed to have been long enough to combat the sleepless week prior. Still, he may not be exhausted, but that didn't make him energetic. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, that didn't seem like it was going to happen anytime soon. He hadn't yet opened his eyes, but he seemed to be lying somewhere-a bed, mostly likely, given how it shook with movement-between Harley and the Joker, who were having a giggling fit over something.

"Go get the camera."

"Right-a-rooni!" God, there ought to be laws against being so perky in the morning. He felt the mattress shift as Harley jumped off and closed his eyes tighter. What was she getting a camera for? And for that matter, why did he care?

He focused all his energy on drifting off again. He would have succeeded too, had Harley not climbed back onto the bed. "Got it!"

Jonathan considered making some sound to let them know they were keeping him up. No, it was pointless. They wouldn't care. At least the Joker wouldn't.

"Almost got it…this is _so_ cute…there!" Her voice seemed to drill its way into his head. _If I'm staying with them for any length of time, I'll need to invest in earplugs._ "Smile!"

There was a flash of light, bright enough to assault his eyes through the lids. Well, there'd be no getting back to sleep now. Fighting back a sigh, Jonathan opened his eyes.

And found himself snuggling against the Joker.

_The fuck?!_

He lay there for a second, too stunned to move, as the Joker sat up, taking the camera from Harley. "Morning, scaredy cat." He glanced at the screen. "Yeah, that's definitely going on my MySpace."

"What the hell?" He bolted up, regretting it almost immediately as the room seemed to spin around him.

"Watch it!" Two pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back up before he could crash into the headboard.

"You're probably still feverish, Jonathan. Take it easy."

"What day is it?" he asked, blinking as the walls came back into focus. He vaguely remembered lying on a couch and feeling horrible, but that was no indication of time.

"Four days since we broke you out. You went through withdrawal."

"Give me that," he said, taking the camera from the Joker's hands. He stared at it, expecting to see an appallingly distasteful photo of them. What he actually saw was a blur.

"Ya think your glasses might help there, Jonny?" The Joker held them out, and Jonathan didn't need to see him clearly to know that he was smirking.

He slipped them on and looked back to the screen. There was the Joker, grinning with smudged make-up, as Jonathan lay against him, eyes closed, one arm across the clown. He hated how vulnerable he looked, how helpless. Like a child. The fact that he appeared to have lost weight since the breakout and the Joker's shirt was far too large on him wasn't helping.

Wait, the Joker's shirt?

"Why am I wearing your clothes?" He handed the camera back, sure he'd regret asking.

"'Cuz ya got sick all over your own. You're welcome." He had one last smirk at the camera, then handed it back to Harley. "I gotta say, I pull off that outfit a _lot _better, Jonny."

Jonathan gritted his teeth. "So I was unconscious and vomiting-"

"And hallucinating," Harley added. He got a good look at her, noted the dark circles under her eyes. He felt a pang of guilt for troubling her.

"Don't forget the seizure."

"The _what_?"

"Don't scare him, puddin'. Never mind, Jonathan."

"Well, all of that, and you decided to play dress up with and pose my sleeping body for photos?" He could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead. "Violated" didn't begin to cover it.

"Oh, relax." The Joker patted him on the shoulder. It took all of Jonathan's willpower not to shove him off. "No one posed ya, anyway. Ya did that yourself."

"I what?"

"Got on top of me in your sleep. If anyone's complaining here, it should be me."

"He's serious." Harley nodded earnestly. "Sorry Jonathan. You just looked so adorable lying there I had to get it on film."

He wanted to make a smart remark, but found himself unable to speak. Not metaphorically either. The knowledge that he'd cuddled with the Joker of his own, if unconscious, volition, had make his throat snap shut, with a noise not unlike a seal's bark. It felt like drowning.

"Sorry," Harley repeated, ruffling his hair. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think Mistah J actually has a MySpace."

He tried telling her that was hardly the point. Nothing came out.

"Why'd they dope ya up so much anyway?" Joker asked, running his hand up and down Jonathan's back, as he had that night in Arkham. "Ya try killing someone or something?"

The lack of air was making him dizzy, his vision swimming in and out of focus, when abruptly, his throat opened again with that same hacking sound. "I…yelled at a doctor," he explained, breathing deeply.

"They drugged you that much for that?" Harley asked indignantly, eyes flashing.

"It's a little more complicated." He took another deep breath. He wasn't choking anymore, but the tight feeling in his chest remained. "The night you broke him out of Arkham, Nigma and Isley came into my room to see how I was. They were caught, and we were all questioned. Then, when they found out you were the one responsible, I was questioned again, on the chance that you'd told me your plans during my sessions."

"Didya?" Joker asked, as Harley sat beside them on the bed.

"Puddin', I didn't even plan to break you out. It just happened, remember?"

"Just happened?" Jonathan repeated. "You 'just happened' to have a harlequin costume lying around?"

"There's a costume shop by my apartment."

"I wanna hear the rest of the story," the Joker said, rocking impatiently.

"Fine. So the administrator drilled me about Harley, and then the police commissioner did the same—"

"Oh, you talked to Com_mission_er Gordon?" The clown smacked his lips. "He interrogated me once. Isn't he great?"

"He was the nicest one there, actually. Back to the point, by the time he was through, it was around five in the morning, and instead of letting me get back to sleep, they decided they should take the opportunity to discuss how Harley's turn to crime was affecting me emotionally."

"There's some great timing." Harley shook her head. "People are idiots."

"They took me to Leland's office, who I was not in the mood to see, and…" He blushed. "I told her as much. Loudly. Verbosely. And then I told her exactly what I thought of her skills as a doctor, and her value as a human being."

"And that's when they drugged you?"

"No." Jonathan smiled a little. "First, I asked her how many senior staff members she'd blown to get her position."

"Way to go, scaredy cat!" Before he could avoid it, he got a congratulatory slap on the shoulder that sent him sprawling forward on the bed. Harley, half-paralyzed with laughter, struggled to help him up.

"And that's when they drugged me," he finished.

"Oh, what I would have paid to see her face," said Harley, still giggling.

"It was hilarious," he admitted, pushing his glasses back up. "It was almost worth the sedatives."

The Joker stood, stretching his arms out with a yawn. "Well, I'm gonna take a shower. Have fun."

"He bathes?" Jonathan asked, watching him shuffle away.

"When he feels like it, yes." Harley turned her head to follow his progress, only to find herself nearly knocked to the floor as Jonathan practically jumped on top of her, arms around her torso. "Jonathan?"

"Yes?"

"Did you just tackle-hug me?"

"I…think so," he said, glancing down.

"Oookay." She tried moving her arms. He was holding her too tightly. "Can I ask why?"

"You don't know? Harley, do have any idea how worried I was? He could have killed you, you could have gotten maimed—"

"He wouldn't hurt me, Jonathan."

"You could have gotten arrested," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, words picking up speed. "You still could. Harley, you threw your life away, and for what? You're the one who told me breaking the law was wrong. You're the only one I ever trusted, and you left, just up and left! Do you know how much that hurt? Do you know what that put me through? Do you even care?"

She pushed his hands off. For a moment he stared, shocked, and then she was the one hugging him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Don't worry about me, Jonathan, please. Things will be fine, I promise."

"Fine?" his voice cracked on the word. "You call this fine? You've broken two of Gotham's most dangerous criminals out of Arkham, and you're living with them, helping one of them with his plans. You're risking death just by being around the Joker, not to mention that the Batman's going to hunt us down. And then you'll go to jail. For a long, long time. And this is fine, someh—"

He felt something cover his mouth, and realized it was Harley's hand. "Relax, Jonathan. Believe me, I understand the situation. But there's no point in worrying yourself sick over it. I can take care of myself. We'll be fine, Jonathan. All right?"

It was the furthest things could get from all right, but he couldn't argue. Not when she was with him, hugging him, concerned about hurting his feelings. Her sanity, it seemed to Jonathan, was like a house of cards. It was up now, if shaky, but if he kept pushing, it would all come crashing down.

_Things aren't going to get better, _he realized, hugging her back, _but for her sake I can try and keep them from getting any worse._

* * *

AN: The choking sensation Jonathan experiences in this chapter, as well as an earlier one, is a real condition, known as Vocal Cord Dysfunction. VCD attacks occur when the vocal cords in the throat snap shut, cutting off breathing and speaking in a manner similar to asthma. Attacks can occur at any time, but can also be triggered by stress. As far as I know, Jonathan having VCD is something I came up with, though I suppose I could have read it in some Scarecrow comic and buried it subconsciously.


	21. Dysfunctional Family

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks for the reviews! Thanks to you guys, I've become addicted to feedback.

* * *

Getting out of bed, Jonathan quickly discovered, wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Harley had been right, it seemed, about the lasting fever, and the week of sleep deprivation and days of hallucinating hadn't helped. He spent the next two days as bedridden as he'd been on the sedatives.

It should have been restful-he felt that after all he'd been through, he deserved a good rest-but of course it wasn't. The apartment itself was old and constantly creaking, and in a bad part of the city, from what he could gather without looking out the windows. Still, he could have ignored the settling and the near constant sirens from outside. That wasn't so different from Arkham.

The Joker, however, was impossible to ignore, and in the first day he appeared to have made "Bother the Crane" his new hobby.

For some unfathomable reason, the clown had decided they all needed to play Monopoly. The game went on for four hours, during the course of which the Joker got both Park Place and Boardwalk and decided the rules of the game allowed for embezzling money from the other players. He was also the banker, and Crane suspected he cheated at that too.

After that was over, there was Scrabble.

Once Jonathan had completely lost the will to live, around the time he stopped arguing that random consonants thrown on the board did not a word make, the Joker finally retreated to the living room to watch the news. At which point he had a loud fit, audible down the hall and probably throughout Gotham, regarding their lack of media coverage. Jonathan considered crawling out of bed in order to find a sharp object to deafen himself with, but that would take too much effort.

Every cloud had a silver lining, however, as the Joker was still angry enough the next day to seek out attention. Jonathan wasn't sure exactly how he planned to get it, but it involved taking a large number of pipe bombs with him.

He was just starting to drift off when Harley showed up. "Jonathan?"

"Eh?"

"Can we talk?"

"Can it wait?"

She responded by sitting at the foot of the bed. He pulled himself up with a sigh. "What is it?"

"I've been thinking about what you said the other day. About throwing my life away. And I've decided—"

"That you're better off without the Joker and you're going to leave him?" he offered hopefully.

"No, Jonathan. What I was going to say is that I don't want you to ruin your life."

"You broke me and the Joker out of Arkham," he said, careful to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, "and teamed up with a homicidal maniac, and you're worried about my ruining _my_ life?"

"Yes. Look, seeing as how you don't make a habit of killing people—"

"Because brain damage is preferable?"

"—I think you'd actually have a shot at a normal life if you reformed."

He arched a brow. "What are you saying?"

"That I want to help you get over your need to hurt people."

"Wait, so even though you're an outlaw now, you still want to be my psychiatrist?"

She nodded. "What do you think?"

"I think that no one in Gotham is going to trust me if you're the one to reform me."

"So you can leave Gotham." Harley shrugged. "What's so great about this city anyway?"

"Harley, don't you think you should be worrying more about yourself right now?"

"No, Jonathan," she said patiently, as if speaking to a small child. "I can take care of myself. Whereas I don't think you have the first idea how to function in society without spraying someone in the face with toxin. Am I right?"

"I never poisoned anyone but my patients when I was the administrator," he muttered, looking down at the sheets.

"But you thought about it, didn't you?"

"No." Off her look, he added, "Maybe a little."

"Okay. Well, it's not healthy to be thinking about how to torture someone you're interacting with, Jonathan. Even if that person is an idiot. You're not good at getting close to people, are you?"

"People don't like me."

"I like you."

"You don't count. Neither do Nigma or Isley," he added, before she could try it. "Normal people do not like me. Not even my own mother did."

"Your mother wasn't what I'd call a normal parent."

"No, it was something about me," he insisted. "She loves my sister just fine."

"You have a sister?" she asked, surprised. "Why isn't that in your file?"

He shrugged. "Probably because my mother cut all contact with me after the trying-to-destroy-Gotham thing. But I do have a sister. My mom got married and had her while I was in college." His hands clenched on a blanket, twisting it. "And she loves her as much as any normal parent would. Because she was a planned child, I think."

"You didn't get along with your stepfather, then?"

"We were fine until the poisoning people thing came up. I don't think he was ever really comfortable around me, but he was nicer than she'd ever been. She was nicer to me when he was around, I guess because she didn't want to scare him off."

"And your sister?"

"I never spent much time around her when she was old enough to talk. I don't know. I resent her, I guess. I…" His grip tightened on the blanket. "Sometimes I wanted to hurt her, to punish my mother for the way she'd treated me, the things she let my grandmother do to me. Sometimes I wanted…to kill her." He looked down, unable to imagine even Harley taking that information well.

"Did you ever hurt her?" she asked softly, putting her hand on his.

"No. I mean, it's not her fault my childhood sucked. It wasn't her I was angry at, not really. Just my mother."

"So why didn't you confront your mother?"

"What good would that do?" He let go of the blanket, wrinkles creased where his hands had been. "She wouldn't care what I thought. She never did."

"And you never used the toxin on her?"

"I didn't live with her once I'd developed it. I barely saw her. Honestly, I was almost afraid it wouldn't work on her."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because nothing I did could ever get a reaction out of her. Not the abuse, not any of my achievements, not even when I got a full ride through college. She didn't care about anything I did. I've so rarely seen her being reactive to anything, I almost don't believe she can be."

"Do you think that's why you want to frighten people?" Harley asked, giving his hand a squeeze.

He looked up. "What?"

"Because fear is such a powerful reaction. And you could never get your mother to respond to you. So, is causing fear your way of getting the attention you never had?"

"I…I don't know. I'd never thought of it that way." This was getting dangerously close to the sort of psychoanalysis he'd always hated in Arkham, but it wasn't as annoying when Harley did it, somehow. "I mean, I don't poison people because of my mother. It's something I _choose_ to do. And if there was someone in my life who taught me about fear, it was my great-grandmother."

"With the water?"

Jonathan stiffened. "Yes. And the dark, the cellar, the birds, the—"

"Wait, I thought you liked birds."

"I do _now_. It's sort of hard to enjoy their presence when you're surrounded by them, and they're all hungry. They still unnerve me in large numbers. But once I started to appreciate fear, I began to appreciate what they did for me. You have to master your own fear to control those of others."

Harley tapped the fingers of her free hand against the sheets, reminiscent of the way she used to tap her pens in Arkham. "But you still have fears, don't you? You're afraid of Batman, water, apathy towards your behavior, something happening to me—"

"Yes, but I can control those fears. For the most part. I don't have to have complete control over my own neuroses to see how to turn fear against others. It's like…" he paused, thinking. "Like antipsychotics. No one's really sure how they work, but they combat mental illness, so they're prescribed." He stiffened again, remembering.

"What is it?" Her grip on his hand tightened. "Are you all right?"

"My pills, the ones I take to counteract the brain damage. It's been four days now, we need to find a way to get them before they're out of my system completely, and—"

"Relax, Jonathan." She held up her free hand. "We raided the medicinal cabinets when we broke you out."

"You brought them?"

"Well, yeah. I didn't forget the whole 'panic attacks and manic fits' thing you warned me about. I tried giving them to you over the past few days, but it was hard enough to get you to take aspirin and water. Here, I'll go get them."

"I say," said the Joker, staggering into the room, "that ya oughta try life without 'em, scaredy cat. It'd make ya a lot more interesting." His clothes and make-up were coated with soot and grime, leaving a fine layer of black filth on the carpet with each step he took.

"Where've you been, puddin'?" Harley asked, walking over to him.

He blinked. "What?"

"Where've you been?" she repeated, a little louder.

"Ah. Maintaining our reputation. May have suffered a bit of, uh, hearing loss," he licked his lips, "but whatever."

"I think you've suffered a bit of a concussion," Jonathan said, watching the Joker's unsteady progress across the room.

"Ah, who cares what ya think?" he said, collapsing on the bed. "The point is, if I'm not on all the news stations now, I'll eat my hat. Or call in a death threat. Or something."

"I'm goin' to get Jonathan's pills," Harley said. Jonathan noticed she only seemed to drop the endings off words when the Joker was around. He didn't like it. "You need any aspirin or anything?"

"I'm fine," he said, with a wave of a gloved hand. "Though, can ya bring the TV in here? I'd prefer not to get up."

_So much for sleep._ Jonathan fought back a sigh.

At least there were no death threats, since he had made every station.

* * *

AN: I'm mostly basing Jonathan's back story off of _Batman/Scarecrow: Year One, _though anyone who's read it will probably notice I've changed a lot of things. (Jonathan being aware that he had a sister and step-father, etc.) So if you've followed his canon origins closely and are bothered by some glaring discrepancies in here, I'm sorry. It's partly based on my not knowing the entire origin story when I began, and partly artistic license.


	22. Well, Shit

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks for your reviews! This chapter's a little short, I'm sorry.

* * *

By the third morning, Jonathan could walk again. Upon realizing that fact, his first act was to take a shower. Old apartment or not, the water heater worked much better than the one at Arkham ever had, and he fully intended to stand under the spray until the hot water ran out, or he got sick of it. Whichever came first.

That plan was foiled, unsurprisingly by the Joker, who announced his intentions to use the bath by storming into the bathroom, flinging upon the shower curtain, and lifting Jonathan out.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, water dripping into his eyes. Along with shampoo. It stung rather a lot.

"Ya take too long," the Joker said, stripping. Jonathan averted his gaze, horrified.

"I wasn't even there for five minutes."

"Yeah, but if I want it, and you're still there, that's too long."

He wasn't going to try touching that logic. "You can't just throw people out of showers."

The Joker shrugged, smacking his lips. "Harley seems to find it erotic when I do it."

"Oh _God_. I didn't need to hear that."

"Relax, wouldya? It's not like I haven't seen ya naked before."

"You _what_? _When?_"

"That's for me to know and ya can torture yourself trying to figure it out," he said, closing the curtain.

Jonathan stood for about a minute and a half, until his brain processes started to work again. "At least give me a robe or something."

The curtain opened long enough for a towel to be sent flying at his face.

* * *

He found Harley at the kitchen table, eating toast and flipping through a newspaper. He wondered where she'd gotten a paper, and decided against asking. The explanation was more than likely innocuous, but everything seemed to have gone mad lately.

"Harley? I need pants."

Her head jolted up, eyes wide. She looked him over, visibly relaxing as she did. "God, Jonathan. You can't start conversations that way. I was expecting you to be naked."

"Sorry to disappoint?" He sat, one hand holding the waistband of his trousers to keep them from falling off. "The Joker's shirts I can deal with. These, however, will not stay on without my constant effort. And I'd rather expend energy on more worthwhile things."

"Okay. We can get you clothes. I needed to go shopping anyway."

"What for?" Shopping? When villains needed something, they didn't shop. They raided homes, and the like. What did she need that was worth risking being caught on security cameras?

"Nothing," she said quickly. "I mean, not nothing. Just various things. That we need. I mean, the Joker needs. It's not for me."

Was he imagining things, or was she shredding the sides of the paper with her nails? Something was up. He could tell that much from her body movements, small and stiff, and her hair. Harley always had it pulled back, be it a bun, ponytail, pigtails, or braids. Now it was hanging in her face. And she looked as if she hadn't slept. "Is something wrong?"

"No." Once again, the answer was too quick.

_Oh Christ, what if she's injured?_ Could the Joker be abusing her, and she was trying to get medical supplies without giving it away? He wouldn't put it past her; she seemed to be intentionally blinding herself to her lover's psychotic nature. "Harley, you're not hurt are you?"

"What?"

"Did the Joker assault you? Are you okay? Because I can do something if he has. I mean, I don't have the fear toxin with me, but I can get it. I can make him suffer. If he's so much as laid a hand on you—"

"Jonathan." She tapped his nose to silence him, smiling.

"Yes?"

She was giggling. "You are so paranoid, do you know that? No, he hasn't hurt me. He loves me. And do you think I'd be foolish enough to let someone abuse me?"

_Well, yeah._

"So what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Something is," he insisted. "I may not be great with understanding people, but I know when you're upset."

Harley sighed, shoulders slumping. She lowered her head. "I might be pregnant."

"What?" He'd heard the words perfectly, but it seemed his mind was refusing to process them.

"I might be pregnant," she repeated, crushing the paper between her hands. "And I have no idea what I'm going to do if I am."

He felt the familiar tightness in his chest that seemed to precede his throat closing up, and tried to shrug it off. It was a somewhat successful attempt. "But—I—but how?" he sputtered, hoarsely.

"What do you mean, how?" She sounded bitter. "I think you know how conception occurs."

"I…the…weren't you using protection?"

"I kind of forgot my birth control at home when I broke the Joker out," Harley said flatly. "And you may not have picked up on this, but he's not the sort of man you can make put on a condom if he doesn't want to."

_Did not want to know that. _Never_ wanted to know that. _"So you need a pregnancy test?"

She nodded. Her eyes were glistening. She seemed terrified. His heart ached for her, but at the same time, he realized he was enjoying her fear Just a bit, but he was still disgusted with himself. _Harley is my _friend. _I am _not _going to get pleasure from her suffering, fear or not. _It was strange. Enjoying fear had never felt wrong before. Friendship was unsettling.

"I'm late," she said. "What am I going to do if I'm pregnant? The Joker's told me he doesn't want kids."

"You've talked about this?" Dear God, could things get any more disturbing?

"Not seriously. But how could I raise a child now, when I'm a criminal outlaw? And it's not like I can just stroll into a clinic if I turn out to be pregnant."

"The Joker could hold one hostage and make them help you." He could not believe he'd just suggested that. Living here was starting to warp his mind.

"I'd be too afraid to tell him. He might be angry with me for being reckless."

"But if you've conceived, he's just as responsible as you are!"

Harley shook her head, hair swinging limply along with it. "Oh, Jonathan. You don't get it. I'm the one with the uterus."

Unbelievable. Double standards sucked. "So you need a test." He stood, pants nearly sliding off before he remembered to hold onto them. "Let's go now."

"Now? It's noon. People are out now."

"Yes, but if you're with child, it's important to find out as soon as possible, isn't it?"

She stared.

"What?"

"Did you just say 'with child?'"

"Yes. So?"

Harley collapsed against the table, laughing too hard to pull herself back up.

"Why is that funny?" he asked indignantly.

"Because it is!"

"It's a perfectly legitimate term for pregnancy."

"That doesn't make it any less ridiculous!" She was wiping tears from her eyes. "It's so…biblical. God, I love you. Go grab one of the Joker's belts and we'll go."

"Fine," he said, somewhat irritated. "And just so you know, if you are pregnant, I'll hold up a clinic for you."

She sobered, though without looking as close to tears as she had before. "Thanks. You're a great friend, Jonathan."

_I'm a masochist, _he thought, shuffling down the hall. _That's the only way to explain why I put up with all this._


	23. Shopping and Sweaters

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks as always for your reviews! I'll try to have another chapter up tomorrow, but once November starts updates will probably slow down to about once a week or so, due to NaNoWriMo. Sorry guys!

* * *

"We should split up," Harley muttered as they stepped through the automatic doors. She cast a suspicious glance to the people milling about the aisles, as though Batman would appear from the frozen foods section at any moment.

"Why?"

"It would get us out of here faster."

"Strength in numbers, though. What if someone recognizes one of us?"

"We've both got weapons."

True. Given that most everyone in Gotham was on their lunch break right now, this time they were both carrying working firearms. Jonathan could feel the gun through the pocket of the Joker's oversized pants, brushing against his leg with each step. It was more uncomfortable to have than he'd expected. Someone who poisoned people for fun shouldn't be gun shy…but shooting was so _permanent._ At least with toxin, there was an antidote, even if it did have a limited time frame to be administered.

He sighed. "What do you want me to get?"

"The pregnancy test."

"_What?_"

"Keep your voice down," she hissed, taking a shopping cart.

"Why can't you get that? It's for you!"

"One, because I might have a nervous breakdown in the aisle if I think about it anymore. And two, salespeople usually bother you more if you're looking at clothing, so I think the person less likely to be recognized and better with people should be the one to go there. And Jonathan, you've probably noticed this already, but you're not good with people."

"Thanks for rubbing it in." He gave up. Like most arguments with Harley, he wasn't going to win this. "Need anything else?"

She paused, considering. "Orange juice."

"Why?"

"I'm trying to get Mistah J to take in more vitamin C," she explained. "He's sort of malnourished."

"Oh, he'll go along with that."

"Well, even if he doesn't, I like orange juice."

"But you can't drink too much of it. At least, not until we're sure of your condition."

Her brows furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because too much vitamin C can cause a miscarriage." God, why did he know more about pregnancy than she did? Weren't women supposed to inherently know these things? For roughly the thousandth time since they'd left the house, Jonathan wished with all his heart that she was just late. He refused to become Harley's living, breathing copy of _What to Expect When You're Expecting._

"Oh."

Fighting back another sigh, he made his way to the beverages. Upon which point he realized he'd left his glasses at home.

That wasn't a problem as far as orange juice was concerned; few other drinks came in cartons with oranges on the front, which he could make out, albeit blurrily. Pregnancy tests, on the other hand, were small to begin with, and those were an absolute nightmare.

He stood with his back to the opposite shelf, squinting at the boxes from across the aisle. If he picked one up and held it close enough, things probably would have been simpler, but there was no way. Holding pregnancy tests about an inch from his eyes would look odd and perverse and definitely stand out in passerby's minds. At least standing further away gave the impression that he was considering the various contraceptive options around the tests. Not that that was much better.

What sort of a test did she need, anyway? One of the early response types, or the digital, easy to understand ones, or the ultra-accurate kind? Should he just buy one of everything? No, that was stupid. She wasn't just going to sit there and drink for five hours to test them all, she'd probably get water intoxication. And the Joker would be sure to notice.

God, what if she was pregnant? He didn't even know if she was pro-life or pro-choice. What if she wanted to keep it? She said she hadn't, but she could change her mind. He tried to imagine her serving as the Joker's henchwench at nine months. No, the Joker wouldn't let that happen, it would slow him down. He'd probably kick her in the stomach or something equally horrible if he found out. Unless he wanted to continue his legacy, or had some other deranged reason for wanting offspring. Jonathan tried to imagine what the Joker's child would be like. He could only think of _Rosemary's Baby._

"Can I help you, sir?"

He jumped, nearly out of his skin, but resisted the urge to pull out the gun and start firing. "W-what?" He turned, slowly so as to regain his composure when he did, and found a salesgirl smiling in his face. She was tall, dark-haired, and though he couldn't make out her features clearly without his glasses, she was obviously very pregnant.

He'd never believed in guardian angels, but this was close enough. She might not have been sent from heaven, but she'd be as good as the Second Coming, if not better, if she got him out of this place any faster.

"I said, can I help you? Did I startle you? Sorry."

"No, that's fine. I…er…uh…" He wondered if his face was as red as it felt. Probably more so. "My girlfriend and I, we're…uh…we've been trying to c-conceive, and she sent me to get a test, I wasn't sure which one she…uh…"

It wasn't necessary to go on. That he could tell by the way the girl's face lit up. "What kind of test, right?"

He nodded. Thank God for women and the way their hearts seemed to melt over possible infants. Or maybe it was just pregnancy hormones. Either way, he wasn't going to question it.

"Oh, good luck!" she said, her voice raising at least two octaves on the last syllable. He tried not to wince. "Here, this is the one I used. It gives you an earlier response than any other kind." The box was in his hand almost before he realized she was putting it there. "I hope things work out for you!"

"Er…thank you." Definitely not a guardian angel, those wouldn't be this shrill.

"Good luck!" she said again, as he tried to walk off at a normal speed, rather than to run, which was his impulse.

He found Harley by the registers. "Did you find everything all right?"

Jonathan found himself unable to look up from the floor. "Let's never speak of this again."

"Okay?"

He didn't elaborate.

* * *

"Well, that was _fun_," Jonathan muttered as they made their way out.

Beside him, Harley sighed. "I never thought about shopping becoming dangerous. How do you manage living on the run like this?"

"For one thing, I usually avoid stores. Unless it's for food. And then I just stockpile on that so I have to do it less often. Except for milkshakes."

She blinked. "Milkshakes?"

"I always get weird cravings for them after a crime. No idea why."

"That's…strange."

"I put on a mask and poison people. That _isn't_ strange?"

"Well, relatively strange." She cast an anxious look down to the bag Jonathan carried, the one containing the test.

"I'll just be glad when we get back and you can take this," he said, following her gaze. "I imagine things will be a lot better when the anticipation isn't driving us mad. Madder, I guess."

Harley looked up, confused. "But I can't take it when we get back."

"What? Why not?"

"Now who doesn't know about pregnancy?" she asked, a slight smirk on her face. "You're supposed to take those tests when you get up in the morning. Something about the concentration of hormones in your body being higher then."

His heart sank. "You _have _to take it then? What, it's never accurate any other time?"

"It can be, but if I am pregnant, I'm really early on. It'd be easier to detect in the morning, and we only have one test."

"I would have gotten more," he said tightly, "had the salesgirl not seemed on the verge of throwing me a baby shower right then and there."

"Wait, what?"

"Never mind." He didn't think he could another five minutes of this uncertainty, let alone a whole night's worth. "Look, if you're not pregnant, our next order of business should be to break into a pharmacy and get you birth control. Right away. I don't think I can stand to go through this again."

"How do you think I feel?"

"You're right. Sorry."

"No, it's fine." Harley sighed, and her pigtails seemed to droop, as if in accordance with her mood. "I mean, I did just kidnap you with my criminal boyfriend, mess with your head by telling you crime is wrong while setting the worst example ever, and then spring on you that I might be pregnant. And make you get the test, can't forget that one."

"Hey." He considered hugging her, but decided against it, as it would probably make her drop the bags she was carrying. "Aren't you always telling me that self-confidence is important? You should have some in yourself. Besides, don't freak out about setting a bad example. I can tell the difference between what's illegal and what isn't, you know."

"Says the guy who tries learning about humanity through soap operas."

"That wasn't even my idea!" Jonathan was indignant for a moment, but Harley was laughing, so he let it slide.

* * *

"Where've ya been?" the Joker asked, sprawled out on the bed. For once, the television was off, and he actually seemed to be at work on something, eyes focused on some papers lying on the blankets, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Though for the Joker, the tongue out was less a sign of concentration and more of a normal tic.

"Gettin' Jonathan clothes." Harley answered, handing Jonathan the shopping bags.

"Good. He doesn't look good in mine _at all_, and it, uh, hurts me inside to see him in them."

"Oh, because it's been such a cakewalk for me," said Jonathan. "God only knows who's bled all over these before I put them on."

"I resent that." The Joker rubbed his eye with the back of one hand, leaving dark makeup smudges on his glove. "I know whose blood it is too, ya know. And last I checked, I may have a lengthy list of mental problems, but a, uh, Messiah complex isn't one of 'em."

"Whatever. I'm going to change." He headed into the bathroom and realized, approximately one minute later, that Harley would never be allowed to buy him clothes again.

The first bag contained pairs of jeans, which he was fine with. He only wore jeans rarely, preferring suits, but that was out of habit, nothing against them personally. The second bag contained shirts, and he pulled a sweater over his head at random, without much thought. Things were fine until he turned to the mirror.

_Wait…is that…_ No, it couldn't be. He didn't have his glasses on, and besides, the lights were off. What little sunlight made it through the filthy windowpanes surely wasn't enough to illuminate things properly. He flipped on the light.

The sweater was still very much orange.

_The hell?_ He did not wear orange. It was so…visible, so attention-grabbing. So not Jonathan Crane. He tried flipping through the rest of the bag. Red, light green, bright blue…Christ.

He opened the door back into the bedroom. "Harley?"

She had joined the Joker on the bed, glass of orange juice in hand. "C'mon puddin', it's good. I promise."

"Absolutely not," he replied absently, making a note on one of the papers. "Now, shoo, I'm trying to plan my next great attack on Gotham."

"But you need it. You'll get sick if you don't have something good for you once in a while."

"I don't trust it." He glared at the glass's contents with a look one might give a cockroach. "That shade of orange shouldn't occur in nature."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm serious. It looks like nuclear waste runoff, or…" he turned his head, tongue pushing on his scars as he tried to think up another metaphor. He caught sight of Jonathan and his mouth dropped open. "Or that godawful thing you put the scaredy cat in. What the hell?"

"My thoughts exactly," said Jonathan, who could not believe he was agreeing with the clown. "Harley, why?"

"Oh, you two are so childish." She wrinkled her nose. "I like orange, okay? All the clothes you wear are so dark and somber, Jonathan. You needed something brightly colored and fun."

"But I'm not brightly colored and fun. I'm dark and scary."

"Not anymore." The Joker dissolved into a laughing fit. "God, Jonny, you're like a Jack-o-lantern. Only less intimidating."

"Oh, shut up." Jonathan was losing his will to live. The fact that the Joker was entirely correct wasn't helping matters.

Harley took advantage of her lover's distraction to put the glass in his hand. He actually took a sip from it, between giggles, before wincing and nearly dropping the thing. "God. That stings!"

"Maybe it wouldn't if you ever brushed your teeth," Jonathan suggested.

"Oh, shut up, traffic cone."

"You guys are so cute," said Harley, leaning in to kiss the Joker's cheek. Apparently his next great attack on Gotham wasn't so important after all, as he turned to kiss her back. Jonathan watched them play tongue hockey for a few seconds before he walked away in disgust.

_What has my life come to?_ he asked himself, wondering if there were any nearby stores that sold black fabric dyes. Gallons of it.


	24. The Test

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks for the reviews! The "happy squeak" noise that Harley makes in this chapter is taken from an episode of the animated series, "Harley and Ivy." I think it's on Youtube, if you search for "Harley's Happy Squeak." I found it hilarious and wanted to use it here.

* * *

"Harley," Jonathan whispered, poking her in the shoulder. "Harley, wake up."

"Mmph." She shifted slightly, one hand making a weak attempt to shove him away.

"Harley." He would have spoken louder, but the Joker was beside her, and he thought it best to let sleeping maniacs lie. Or however the term went. "Get up."

Her eyes opened, just barely. "Eh?"

"Get up."

"What time is it?" she asked, the words slightly slurred.

"Six something. Get up."

Her eyes opened the rest of the way, brows slanted. "Why would you wake me up at six in the morning?"

_Unbelievable. _Was her short term memory broken, or was he the only one in this apartment with a sense of responsibility? "Pregnancy test? Hello?"

She bolted up, the covers on her body falling onto the Joker's face. The Joker, who'd always seemed the type to sleep through nuclear fallout, didn't so much as shift. "You've got it?" she whispered.

"In the bathroom. Now go."

Harley got up, and took what seemed an eternity to go across the hall and into the bathroom, Jonathan at her heels like an anxious dog. He stood outside the door, biting his nails. Not that there was much left to bite. He'd spent most of last night attacking his fingers with his teeth to pass the time. He'd bleed if he went much further.

The door opened, flooding the hall with light as Harley stepped through, fiddling with her watch. "I'm setting the alarm," she said as she saw him looking. "So we'll know exactly when it's up."

"Where's the test?"

"In the medicine cabinet. Don't bite your nails." She swatted his hand down, such a normal gesture he was almost relieved. It was as if things were back to normal. Then he caught sight of her strained, nervous expression, and started worrying all over again.

"Why's it in the cabinet?"

"Because I can't stand to have it near me. I'd be glancing at it every six seconds and screaming. I could barely sleep last night, I was sick with worried. _Not _actually sick," she clarified, off his look. "I would have taken the test right away if I'd thrown up. But I was worried enough for it to cause stomachaches."

"Ah." There followed an awkward pause, in which Harley tried to avoid staring at her watch, and he tried to avoid biting his nails. "So…what are you going to do if you are…you know?"

"I thought you were holding up a clinic for me?"

"I will." Had she been serious about it? He imagined holding up a waiting room full of pregnant, already emotionally unstable women. _Oh hell._ "Is that what you want?"

She sighed, shoulders slouching. "I don't know, Jonathan. I can't have a child like this. Not with Gotham's police department and the damn Batman looking for us. But…" She fiddled with the band of her watch, turning its display away from her. "I want children, you know? And I know it's selfish, but if I'm pregnant, I don't want to give it up."

He fought very hard not to tell her what he thought of the idea. If the Joker didn't react violently to the idea of her giving birth, Jonathan couldn't imagine him giving her maternity leave. And while the idea of Harley shuffling around with a rocket launcher while battling morning sickness was hilarious, the fact that it was a very real possibility was not. "I understand." He didn't, of course.

"You're biting again," she chided, pulling his hand into hers. "That's unsanitary."

"This coming from someone who makes out with the Joker?"

"He's not _that _dirty."

"He most certainly is. Give me my hand back."

"No." Her grip tightened. "You can't be trusted with it."

"It's _my _hand." And if he didn't get it back soon, he'd start biting his lips. Which would bleed faster than his hands.

"Well, if I don't have it, I'll start crying."

_Curse her emotional blackmail. _"Fine." He tried to move his free hand up inconspicuously, but she grabbed that as well.

They stood for a minute, Jonathan biting his lips and Harley shaking her head in disapproval. The moment was interrupted by her watch, beeping loudly. They froze, but heard no sounds from the bedroom. "You can check it now, right?" he asked, pulling himself free.

Her eyes were so wide they were in danger of coming out. "I—I can't! Jonathan, you check it!"

"_What?_" He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and felt blood on his skin. "Why can't you do it?"

"Because I _can't_!" She was shaking. Her fear would have been lovely, had it not been her. "_Please, _Jonathan!"

"No." What, as if he'd be able to put up with the stress any better? He'd already started on his nails again.

"Please!"

"Absolutely not."

Her eyes were glistening. "_Why?_"

Oh, for the love of God. Friend or not, he wasn't going to admit to 'I'll faint before I get a good look.' "Because you've peed on it."

"Oh, don't give me that!" She still looked terrified, but now her cheeks were flushed with anger. "You worked at an asylum, as if you'd have any reservations about bodily fluids! Now go!"

"No," he repeated, around his fingers. "I don't know how to read it."

"One stripe, not pregnant. Two stripes, pregnant. Go!"

"I can't," he protested, as she got behind him and tried pushing him through the door.

"You have to!"

"No!" She was succeeding in moving him, despite his advantage in height and weight. He tried gripping the doorframe, which didn't work too well without nails to latch on. _Damn it damn it damn it._

"_Please!_"

Damn it. She was going to get him through, he knew it, and he'd end up looking, and if she turned out to be pregnant, he'd faint, breaking his head on the sink, and bleed to death on the floor of a filthy apartment while wearing a bright red turtleneck. Why did the universe hate him so much? "Harley, I really _can't_—"

She stopped dead, hands dropping from his body. He was relieved for a split second, until he realized that she wouldn't have done that unless something horrible had happened. _Oh shit. _Had the Joker woken up? He spun around.

There was no Joker, just Harley, standing still as the grave. Her expression was unreadable.

_Oh my God, I broke her._ Shit. If he'd known refusing to check her pregnancy test would make her mind break down completely, he'd have done it in a heartbeat. "Harley?"

No response. Her eyes shifted from side to side, as if in thought.

"Harley?" He put his hands on her shoulders, gently. "Harley, I'm sorry. I'll go check for you. All right? Just…just say something, okay? Harley?"

She looked at him for a moment, eyes wide with an expression he couldn't read. Then, to his amazement, she shoved him out of the way, running into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her. "Harley?" he asked, bewildered.

"Not now, Jonathan!"

He stood there, utterly lost. _What just happened?_ Had that catatonic moment been courage gathering or something?

The door opened again, Harley standing there. He couldn't tell if she was happy or upset. She looked somewhere in between. "Harley? Did you check the test?"

"I didn't need to," she said. Her voice was quiet, almost surprised, as though she couldn't believe what had just happened.

"What do you mean?"

"I started my period."

"What?"

"I thought I felt it a minute ago, and I just confirmed it." She sighed, and once more he couldn't tell if it was with relief or remorse. "I should have realized those were cramps last night."

"Are you sure?" He struggled to hold in his own happiness, until he could read her mood.

She rolled her eyes. "No, Jonathan, the blood's just a coincidence. Of course I'm sure."

"Are you all right?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I'm disappointed, I guess. I know I shouldn't be, but…" she trailed off, brushing her hair behind her shoulders. Her eyes were glistening again.

Shit. He could not handle it if she cried. "Do you need a hug?"

"No, Jonathan." Was it his imagination, or were her shoulders starting to shake?

"Do you need me to steal you a puppy or something?" he suggested desperately.

She lifted her head and stared. "A what?!"

"A puppy. Because…you wanted a child…and you can be maternal to animals…but…not on the same level…and…that was an awful idea. Never mind."

Her shoulders were still shaking, but it was with laughter now. "You're hilarious."

"Shut up. I was trying to be nice."

"I know," she said, covering her mouth to muffle her giggles. "But you're so _bad _at it…though, in a good way."

He glowered at her, as he walked into the bathroom and opened the cabinet. The pregnancy test sat on the bottom shelf, displaying one blue line. He knew by now that they were off the hook, but it was still comforting to have evidence. "Yeah, you're definitely not—"

"Up at an unreasonable hour and keeping me from sleep?" asked an irritable voice from behind them.

Jonathan turned to find the Joker beside Harley, rubbing his eyes with his fists like a child, smearing his make-up even more than usual. "What are ya doing, guys?"

"Nothin', Mistah J," Harley said quickly, stepping in front of Jonathan as if to doubly block his view of the cabinet.

The Joker shot her a look. "Harley-girl. Ya've got a lotta talents, but lying ain't one of them. I heard shouting. I tried to ignore it, but I heard it all the same. So what's up?"

"Well, puddin', it's like this." She paused, eyes darting nervously around the room.

"Yeah?

"I…er…we…that is, i—it's um…well…you see—"

The Joker sighed. "Scaredy cat. Explanation. Now."

Jonathan shrugged, in what he hoped was a nonchalant matter. "I don't know…er…I think I was sleepwalking? H—Harley's just woke me up." _Oh, _that's _believable._

"Neither of ya can lie worth a damn, ya know that?" He pushed past Harley, knocking her hand off his sleeve, and stepped into the room. "Now, look. Ya got five seconds to tell me what's going on before I lose my temper. Got it?"

Jonathan found himself unable to speak. A glance at Harley told him the same had happened to her.

Another sigh. He pushed past Jonathan as well, examining the room. "Well, you're obviously up to _something_, and I'm gonna figure out what—" He stopped cold, eyes on the medicine cabinet. "The hell is this?"

_Fuck._

"Puddin', I can explain." Harley half-ran around Jonathan to the clown as he picked up the test.

"Are ya pregnant?" he asked, mouth opening as wide as the scar tissue would allow it.

"No. No, no, I'm not. I was goin' to tell you, as soon as I knew for sure or not—"

He looked from the test to her. "Ya told Jonathan before you told me?"

"It's not like that. I got Jonathan to buy the test for me. I was too afraid to do it alone. Puddin', don't be mad, please."

He put the test on the sink, turned back to her. "Why didn't ya just tell me?" he asked with an air of bewilderment.

"I don't know," she said, visibly relieved by his reaction. "I thought you'd be angry. I'm sorry."

"Oh, pumpkin." One of his hands went to her cheek, and she didn't seem to mind the smudges of face paint it left there. The other began stroking her hair. "People get pregnant. We've had sex. It happens. Ya don't have to be afraid to tell me."

Harley, smiling, made a sound that could only be described as a 'happy squeak.' Jonathan realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his chest.

"You're not upset then, puddin'?"

He was winding his fingers through her hair now. Any second now they'd start making out. Jonathan wondered if he could slip out now, or had to wait until they actually started kissing. He wouldn't want to ruin the moment for her.

"Harley, I'm not mad about _that._" And suddenly there was an undercurrent, quiet but incredibly strong, of rage in his voice. Jonathan snapped his head back in their direct to find the Joker's hand still in her hair, pulling viciously as she whimpered. "But ya kept secrets from me," he continued, in that soft, dangerous voice. It was almost unbelievable, how fast his mood had shifted. "And that? That makes me angry. Very."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, sounding near tears.

"Well, good. Don't do it again." He let go off her hair, and she straightened up, hand rubbing her scalp.

"I won't!"

"Oh, and to make sure ya get it?"

She didn't have time to duck, nor did Jonathan to intervene. The Joker was back on her in a split second, hand coming upside her head and slamming it into the bathroom mirror. The glass shattered with a sickening crack, as Harley slumped to the floor. Jonathan stared at her, then the mirror, which had smudges of blood on it, then back to her. He was too stunned to move.

"I don't like it when people hide things from me. Got it?" The Joker stepped past Jonathan, who could only stare at him, and back into the hall. He cast a glance to Harley, still slumped and whimpering, and shook his head in disgust. "I'm going back to bed. The two of ya can clean this mess up."


	25. Rationalization

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: So here I am, sending huge mixed signals by being all 'Hey guys, I'll probably update rarely in November' and then posting this. Basically, it's a weekend, I don't have a lot of homework, and I'm incredibly close to hitting my NaNo word count for the day, so here this is. The same thing might happen tomorrow, but I make no guarantee about weekdays. I doubt it, actually. But it seems I may have been wrong about the 'once a week' thing. Thanks for the reviews!

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The darkness had all but disappeared since Harley had turned to crime.

Well, it had been very present and rather loud right when he'd been informed of her escape, but not long after that it was sedated into submission. It hadn't come back once he'd gone through withdrawal either; Jonathan assumed it didn't want to hang around in a place with bright orange sweaters and Kodak moments.

But now, watching Harley bleeding, it came back so quickly, it was hard to believe it had been gone at all. So loudly, he could barely hear her crying.

He'd never thought to frighten the Joker before; Jonathan doubted anything could scare him, or that there was anything to be gained from trying but death. He'd been curious, yes, but not that curious or stupid enough to try it.

Scarecrow, on the other hand, would love to try. With or without fear gas. And was insisting, quite persuasively, that Jonathan let him loose. And Jonathan, watching his friend cowering on the floor, couldn't think of any good reasons to resist.

Sure, he was probably going to get himself killed, and he had no plan of attack, but the thought of the Joker screaming in panic, completely at his mercy…well, how could he pass up that opportunity? It vaguely occurred to him that Harley wouldn't be pleased, but he just couldn't bring himself to care.

He turned to follow the clown. This would be interesting, to say the least. He should probably develop some plan of attack between the door and the bedroom. Maybe he'd just improvise.

He felt something grab onto of the leg of his pants, turned to find Harley staring up at him, face both blood and tear-stained, holding him back. The darkness suggested that he kick her off and keep going. God, was it tempting.

"Jonathan." Her words were barely above a whisper. He couldn't tell if she was overcome with emotion or just trying to avoid upsetting the Joker again.

Damn it. Despite Scarecrow's increasingly loud protests, he couldn't just walk off when she was crying. Fine, first the comfort, then the killing. He knelt down. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." She really couldn't lie. "Don't do anything rash, Jonathan. I'm fine."

"Does feeding him his own spine qualify as 'rash'? Harley, look what he did to you! You can't tell me you're going to try and defend him after this."

"I should have told him."

Jesus Christ. He was tempted to smack her himself, for that. "Excuse me? Weren't you the one who told me that no one should suffer abuse?"

"That wasn't abuse, Jonathan, really, it wasn't. I should have told him. He was worried, is all."

"No, Harley, worried is when I start hyperventilating because you might be pregnant. Abuse is slamming your head into a fucking _mirror_ for hiding a possible pregnancy. How can you defend this?"

"You don't understand." She grabbed his hands, holding so tightly it would have been painful had he not been distracted by rage. She sounded desperate, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as him. "He loves me, Jonathan, he does."

"Have you completely lost it?" He gaped, equal parts disgusted and incredulous. "He doesn't love you, Harley, he used you to break out. He could have just broken your skull. Are you going to try and tell me that's excusable? Because that's fucking ridiculous."

She squeezed his hands even tighter. "No, Jonathan, I don't think he realized that was going to hurt me."

"_What?_" That was it. She had well and truly gone off the deep end. "Harley, please tell me you're not serious, because that's got to be the worst excuse I ever—"

"You don't understand! Look, he doesn't have a sense of empathy, all right?"

As if that made things okay? "So what?"

"So if he doesn't have empathy, he can't comprehend that he's causing me pain."

Unbefuckinglievable. "Of course he realizes it's painful! Why the hell else would he do it?"

"No, I mean, he knows it hurts, but I don't think he knows it hurts that badly. Jonathan, he wasn't trying to seriously injure me. Relax, okay?"

He stared. "No, not okay. There aren't words to describe how absolutely unokay this is. You're the one who told me it's not all right to put up with that sort of thing, remember?"

"Yes, but this is different than what you went through growing up!"

"How? Because it looks identical to me."

"It—it just is!" She let go of one of his hands to wipe blood from her face. "Look, you have to trust me on this, okay?"

"Why? This situation isn't giving me much faith in your judgment, you know."

"Because you don't know anything about relationships!" She grabbed his hand again, her hair to the right side looking near orange in parts, from blood mixed with blond. "You don't know anything about love. I do. Trust me on this, Jonathan."

On the one hand, she did have more experience in romance than he probably ever would. On the other hand, this smacked of a sad attempt to confuse him into giving up the argument. "I may not know a lot about love," he retorted, "but I know that lovers shouldn't slam each other into mirrors."

"Well, they shouldn't hide something as big as pregnancy from their partners either, should they? Does that sound right to you?"

"It sounds a lot better than backhanding them into furniture."

"You didn't answer the question." She was holding him so tightly he'd begun to lose circulation in his hands. "Look, he shouldn't have hit me. I'll admit that was wrong. But I shouldn't have hid things from him either."

"Of course you should have! Look at how he reacted to this. God knows what he would have done if you'd told him you thought you were pregnant."

"No, he wouldn't have been angry." She shook her head so vehemently that a stray drop of blood or two hit him in the face. "He said that didn't bother him."

"And you believe that?" How could someone so smart be so stupid?

"Yes, I do. You have trust issues, Jonathan. You don't understand."

"I understand," he said, pulling his hands free and flexing them a few times to restart the blood flow, "that hitting is never okay."

"No, it's not." She sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "But he's never done that before."

"So what, that makes it fine?"

"No, of course not. But Jonathan, every relationship has arguments. All couples do things they regret. He won't do it again, I know he won't. And I'll never hide something from him again, so it'll work out. Don't you see?"

"I think that you're trying to rationalize abuse."

Her other hand stroked his face. "I'm not, Jonathan. I promise you, I'm right about this. I'm not a stupid person. I wouldn't be here if I thought my safety was at risk."

_The hell you wouldn't. _What was he supposed to say? The darkness in his head was still shouting, the Scarecrow still fighting to come out and show the Joker what was what. And possibly Harley too, some part of him was that disgusted with her for putting up with this. "Harley, just because you're not stupid doesn't mean that this is a good decision. Everything about it feels wrong. And I've learned to trust my intuition."

"What if your intuition's affected by brain damage? What if it's just come off withdrawal and sleep deprivation? Is it trustworthy then?" She looked seconds away from tears. "You trust me too, don't you, Jonathan? Just believe me on this. Please."

_I cannot believe I'm having this conversation._ What's worse, he realized he was starting to see things from her point of view. _There's no way she's going to leave him, and I won't be able to take him down. _The darkness had calmed down enough for him to be rational about that. _So my choice is between leaving both of them—like _that's _going to happen—or staying to protect her._

_God_damn _it. _He half-sighed, half-groaned in frustration. "Fine. I won't try anything."

It was her turn to tackle-hug him, nearly knocking him over backwards. "Thank you, Jonathan! You won't regret this, I promise."

_The hell I won't. _"Don't mention it," he muttered, hating himself.

She straightened up, brushing bloody locks of hair from her face. "Here, hand me the wastebasket. I'll get this cleaned up."

He shook his head. "You take care of that," he said, indicating her head wound. "I'll get the glass."

Harley leaned in and kissed his forehead, before pulling herself up against the sink. "You're the best, Jonathan. And don't worry about me. Things will go back to normal, you'll see."

_That's what I'm worried about._ He watched her navigate her way around the shards and out the door, then tried to relax. It wasn't working, he realized, about the time he looked down and realized he'd been clenching his hands around the glass he was picking up, leaving his palms and fingers a bloody mess. _Oh, Harley's going to love this._

Well, maybe she was right. Maybe things would go back to relatively normal now that this whole pregnancy debacle was over. Ideally, she'd realize that her true love was a monster and leave him forever, but the chances of that happening were about as likely as the Joker becoming sane. As long as things settled back to the way they'd been for the past few days, they'd be all right.

Since nothing could go all right in his life, apparently, it was later that day that the Joker decided to start his latest plan.


	26. The Plan

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks as always for the reviews. Since I've pretty much disproven the whole 'once a week' update thing, I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update throughout the week. I'll try and get new chapters up when I can.

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Harley had gone back to bed by the time he'd finished clearing up the glass, but the first aid kit she'd used was still sitting out on the kitchen counter. Jonathan wasn't sure if it belonged to the apartment's previous owners or if she'd bought it herself—something he could easily imagine her doing, for the Joker's sake—but either way, it had enough bandages to wrap the bleeding wrecks his hands had become. He decided against taking aspirin, as the bottle was near empty and he figured Harley would be in need of painkillers as well. Besides, it didn't hurt that much, provided he didn't move.

That finished, he went into the living room, lay down on the couch, and fell asleep within a minute or so.

Around noon, or so he guessed from the light coming through the windows, he woke up to find the Joker on the arm of the couch, holding one of his hands, pushing at the bandages underneath to see the injury. It hurt. He suspected the clown's movements were reopening the cuts. "What are you doing?"

"Wondering when ya switched from fear to self-mutilation." He let go. "Can ya still move your hands?"

Jonathan tried it. It was unpleasant, but not impossible. "Yes. Why?"

"'Cuz I need ya to film something for me." He lifted a video camera from the coffee table and placed it in Jonathan's hands, holding it there until Jonathan could make himself grasp it.

Jonathan regarded him warily. "Film what?" If the Joker was into some form of voyeurism, he certainly didn't want to know.

"A message to the news networks. But not yet. I need to hunt down my, uh, costar first." He smacked his lips. He seemed to be in a good mood, which Jonathan took as a sign that he had something awful in mind. Then again, he always seemed to be in a good mood. Seeing him serious, like Jonathan glimpsed in the morning, that was the stuff of nightmares.

"Do I want to know?"

"All will be explained in time."

Jonathan sat up. "Are people going to die?"

He shrugged. "It's a possibility. Since when do ya care?"

_I don't. Harley will._ "When are we doing this?"

"Eh…about half an hour." He stood. "I gotta get some things, see ya then."

Jonathan watched him wander down the hall, then stood himself, and went to find Harley.

She was in the bathroom, in full harlequin costume, minus the mask and gloves, spreading white paint over her face. Jonathan noted that she took the effort to apply it evenly, as opposed to the Joker's make-up, thrown on as haphazardly as possible. "Do you have any idea what this is about?" he asked, setting the camera on the sink.

She glanced down at his hands, eyes widening. "What happened to you?"

"Er…picking up glass barehanded isn't the best idea, it seems."

She shook her head. "I don't know how you survived on your own, I really don't. You have no common sense."

_This coming from her, of all people? Oh, the irony. _"How's your head?"

"Fine. Are you going to be able to work the camera like that?"

"Yes. What does he want filmed, anyway?"

She shrugged, painting around her eyes. "He said something about revealing the truth to the people of Gotham. He usually ends up explaining these things on the car ride over."

"Lovely." If there was one thing he hated, it was not knowing what was going on. It figured the Joker would set things up so he was the only one in control. That, or he made things up as he went along. Either seemed likely.

"Oh, don't worry. Things will be fine."

"Relatively. If this plan's a success, the Batman's going to beat us twice as hard once he catches up."

"So he won't."

"He always does. Why do you bother putting that around your eyes?" he asked. "Doesn't your mask cover it?"

"The mask can slide. It would look ridiculous to have my normal skin sticking out under it."

He raised a brow. "More ridiculous than dressing up like a clown?"

"It's not ridiculous, it's theatrical. Speaking of which…" she turned to regard him. "You don't have your mask, do you?"

"Not unless you got it from the asylum."

"Oh." Harley frowned. "Well, I suppose I could paint your face, if you wanted—"

"No thank you." Running around with a burlap sack on his head already required a small loss of dignity. He still had enough pride not to go out in make-up, thankfully. "Besides, this is the Joker's crime. I don't think he'll want the Scarecrow stealing his thunder."

"You're probably right." She picked up her mask and put it on, using one hand to steady as she tapped it into place with the other. "Actually, I'd rather you didn't go in costume, now that I think of it. I am trying to discourage you from this sort of thing, after all."

"Yeah, because that's working so well." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What keeps the mask on, anyway?"

"Spirit gum. It's a stage make-up thing."

"Ah." If there was a sight more bizarre in the world than seeing his former psychiatrist getting ready to wreak havoc on the city in stage make-up and a clown costume, he didn't want to know about it.

She wiped her hands off on a towel and slid her gloves on, turning to face him. "How do I look?"

Jonathan wondered if she purposely made her voice high pitched when in costume, or if it was an unconscious thing. "Clinically insane?"

"Well thank you, Mr. Optimist." She—well, bounced was the only word for it—around him and out of the bathroom. "C'mon, get the camera. Mistah J's probably waitin'."

He was, by the door, toting what appeared to be a bag of…

"You're bringing golf clubs?" Jonathan asked apprehensively. This could lead nowhere good.

"Am I?" Joker turned to regard the bag as if he'd never seen it before. "Why, so I am!"

"Where'd you get those, puddin'?"

"In one of the closets. Got the camera, scaredy cat?"

He held it up, wordless. It seemed safest to avoid conversation until he knew what they were getting into.

"Fabulous." He flung open the door, waving them through in a manner reminiscent of game show host. "Onward then, can't keep the lads waiting!"

The lads turned out to be a group of henchman with a van. They, like Jonathan, were unmasked and unpainted, but all armed. He wondered what would possibly persuade someone to work for the Joker, and decidedly it likely came down to destitution or mental instability. Possibly both.

They gathered into the van, Harley and Jonathan on the floor with the majority of the henchman. The Joker had called shotgun, though he didn't actually sit, preferring to stand before them to reveal the plan.

"Comrades," he began.

"Do you want this on tape?" Jonathan asked, readying the camera.

"Not yet, no. And don't interrupt." He cleared his throat, began again. "Comrades—" And was promptly sent sailing into the side of the van by a sharp left turn. "The hell?" he demanded, pulling himself back up with the assistance of a terrified lackey.

"Sorry, boss." The driver sounded torn between terror and tears. Jonathan smirked. Beside him, Harley stiffened slightly.

"As ya should be! Where'dya learn to drive?"

"O-Ohio?" The answer was uncertain enough to be a question on its own.

The Joker clicked his tongue, disgusted. "Remind me to blow up Ohio one of these days, Harley-girl."

"Yes sir." Her voice was even higher than before, from tension he guessed. Damn. Jonathan would enjoy nothing more than the exquisite terror sure to precede the driver's intestines being fed to him, but that would probably send her into a heart attack.

He raised a bandaged hand. "Excuse me?"

The Joker whirled around, coat spinning out behind him. "What?"

"Why 'comrades'?"

"Because I said so. God. Do I question your villainous speeches?"

"I don't make villainous speeches."

"Well, good. Yours would suck. The point is," he went on, smoothing his hair back into place, "tonight we reveal the truth to Gotham. Tonight, we clear the Batman's name."

Everyone stared. When it became clear that no one else was going to speak up, and the Joker wasn't going to continue until someone did, Jonathan sighed, and raised his hand a second time.

"Yes, scaredy cat?"

"Clear the Batman's name regarding what? And why?"

"Glad ya asked. Bats, ya see, is wanted for five murders." He held up one hand to illustrate, as if they couldn't count to five on their own. Though, knowing what the average henchman was like, most of them probably couldn't. "Know how many of those he actually committed? None. Zero. Zilch." He paused, tongue running over his lips.

Harley's hand raised this time.

"Yes, pumpkin?"

"If he didn't do it, who did?"

"Excellent question." He paused again, for dramatic effect, Jonathan was sure, lacing his fingers and cracking them before going on. "Harvey Dent."

There was a second of stunned silence, before confused chatter broke out among everyone. The Joker let it continue for a minute or so, before slamming his hand against the van roof, with a loud bang that turned every head towards him. "Ya doubting my word?" he asked, eyes glittering.

Jonathan raised his hand again.

"Yes, Raggedy Ann?"

He clenched his teeth and ignored that. "First, Dent is one of the murders the Batman is accused of. And second, Dent was in the hospital, covered in severe burns. How could he have gotten up in that condition, let alone killed four people?"

"Determination. I, uh, had a talk with him, when he was in the hospital, and he started to see things from my point of view." He smirked, the pride on his face evident even through the make-up. "Trust me, he could have put a stop to the Second Coming, the mood he was in.

"And as for the whole Harvey murder thing, I've got a few theories on that. Either he killed himself, died by accident, or, my personal favorite, he's still out there somewhere. Batman took the fall for everything, because he didn't want the city to lose faith. Didn't want 'em to have that extra little _push _to make 'em blow each other to bits."

He stood silent for a moment, to let this sink in, then went on. "Which brings us to our mission," here he shot Jonathan a look, "_comrades._ See, Dent went after the people responsible for his woman's death. Maroni, the police who took him and his girl to the mob that night, Gordon. Though that last one wasn't successful. Gordon knows what really happened, and so does Batsy, but neither of 'em are gonna talk."

He looked around, as if expecting someone to ask what they were supposed to do, in that case.

Jonathan raised his hand. "So what are we doing, if everyone who knows is either dead or not talking?"

Joker grinned, his scars stretching with the movements of his face. "See, there's the thing. Dent didn't get quite everybody. The cop that took his lady love to her doom? Name of Anna Ramirez. Still alive." He paused again, as the van came to a halt, looked out the window, and smirked. "And we happened to be right outside her home sweet home. Today, she's gonna talk, and Jonny here's gonna get it all on tape."


	27. Unexpected Resistance

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. I may be asexual, but I'd still find ways to amuse myself with all those villains (and Bats) if they were mine. Ah, I can dream.

AN: So, this is the chapter that probably really deserves the M rating. If brutal, gory violence isn't your cup of tea, I apologize in advance. I really should be studying for a test now, but instead I'm going to unwisely write. It's been a rough day. My science class had a field trip that involved walking up rickety stairs and narrow catwalks while suspended over sewage. Okay, fine, the stairs were secure and the catwalk four feet wide. I just hate heights. So yeah.

Happy Election Day! And thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"What, we're just going to barge in and start questioning her?" Jonathan asked, camera in a death grip in his right hand, as Harley was tightly holding his left. He couldn't tell if she was nervous or excited. Probably both. Either way, it hurt.

"No, we're not just gonna barge in. Ya gotta have finesse in a job like this." The Joker, hoisting the bag of golf clubs on his shoulder, turned to his lackeys. He pointed to one, seemingly at random. "Go cut the phone lines. And be inconspicuous about it!"

Jonathan watched him scurry off, not seeing any particular finesse about the man. "They'll have cell phones," he said, with a glance out the window toward the apartments.

"Right, but we'll get in there before they've got time to get 'em."

"What about the people in the other apartments, puddin'?" Harley's voice sounded small. Jonathan nearly sighed with relief that someone else could see how idiotic, how sure to get them caught this plan was.

"Never underestimate humanity's ability to ignore what they wanna," he said, looking through the bag with scrutiny, finally pulling out an iron. Jonathan could guess what it would be used for, and it looked lethal. Crippling, at least. "Besides, we'll burn that bridge when we get on it."

The phrase of course, was 'cross that bridge when we come to it,' but Jonathan thought it best not to correct him when he was swinging a golf club around for the fun of it in an enclosed space. It didn't matter anyway, because at that moment the lackey returned.

"Got the lines?" Joker asked, pushing the end of the iron into his chest slightly.

Wordless, and looking seconds from fainting, he nodded.

"Good. Onward, lads!"

_What happened to 'comrades'? _Jonathan wondered. "We're just going to march across the driveway in broad daylight and no one will notice?"

"Yep."

"We'll need a key to get in, won't we?"

"Got one." He held it up in his gloved hand, jumping out of the van. "Now, hurry up."

"Where did he get that?" Jonathan muttered, reluctantly following.

"No idea," said Harley as they crossed the dry, dead lawn and went through the door. "But he's a genius, isn't he?"

_Christ._

Ramirez lived on the fourth floor, it seemed, and while they encountered no one in the elevators, they did intercept an elderly woman in the hallway of the first floor. She'd just stepped out of her apartment and was locking the door behind her when she caught sight of them—with an absolutely wonderful look of horror, Jonathan wished he'd gotten it on tape--and began frantically scrambling with the lock to get back in. She'd just gotten inside when one of the henchmen descended upon her, closing the door behind him. Jonathan supposed they were lucky she hadn't managed to scream for help, or it would have been all over for them. He also noticed that Harley's smile seemed a lot tighter and more forced after that point.

"Do you want me to start filming yet?" he asked, as the elevator doors clicked open and they stepped onto the fourth floor.

"Ya ask me that again, scaredy cat, and I'll feed the camera to ya. I'll tell ya when I want it on." And then, just when Jonathan was starting to think the Joker couldn't shock him anymore, he walked straight up to Ramirez's door, and knocked on it.

Knocked. Incredible. Sure, this was going to get them all killed, or caught at least, but the sheer audacity of it was impressive.

Anna Ramirez opened the door, partly. It was still held shut somewhat shut by a chain. She stood for a second, her expression shifting rapidly from confusion to terror, then tried to slam the door shut. She succeeded in slamming it on the Joker's hand, which he'd thrust in the space at the last second.

If he was hurt, the Joker didn't show it. Beyond gritting his teeth, there was no reaction, merely waiting for Ramirez to pull the door back open and try to slam it shut again and again, at which point he'd shove his arm in further, until he could start fiddling with the chain. The only noise came from Harley, gasping at the sight of the assault on her lover, and Ramirez, screaming for someone inside to call 911.

As Jonathan predicted, the surrounding doors began opening within seconds. With a nod from the Joker, all but two of the lackeys took off, guns drawn and kicking down doors. Ah. Well, that explained why he'd brought so many men.

The Joker, after a moment's struggle with the chain, flung the door open and ran inside with Harley, the henchmen, and Jonathan following close behind him. There was an older woman, Ramirez's mother, most likely, frantically hitting the buttons of her cell phone, which she dropped upon catching sight of the intruders, and screamed. With a nod from the Joker, one of the lackeys crossed the room in a few strides, smashing the phone under his boot as he pistol-whipped the woman, her crumpling to the floor, lifeless.

"Puddin', look out!"

Jonathan snapped his head back towards the Joker at Harley's words, to find Ramirez running back in, gun in hand. _Fuck._ He watched, as if things were in slow motion, as she raised the weapon and pointed it at the clown. Well, that was it. They were all going to die. Marvelous.

Things switched back to normal speed, suddenly, and he stared in amazement as Ramirez was knocked over, gun flying from her hand, not by the Joker, but by Harley. Harley, who was now on top of her, pinning her arms and shouting. "How dare you try an' hurt Mistah J! You're gonna pay for that!"

Joker, watching his girlfriend with a broad grin, picked up the gun and handed it to Jonathan. Wordless, he slipped it into the pocket of his jeans and one of the henchmen closed the door behind him. He could hear it click. Beside him, the clown watched the women struggle for another minute or so before intervening.

"Harley."

Instantly, she stopped mid-slap, looking up at the Joker like an excited dog. "Yes, puddin'?"

"Ya can quit hitting her. Not that it wasn't hilarious." He produced a roll of duct tape from one of his many pockets. "Just hold her for me, wouldya?"

_He's good, I'll give him that, _Jonathan thought grudgingly, as the pair bound Ramirez's wrists. The look on her face was sheer terror, her whole body shaking and eyes too wide to open any further. It was beautiful. Shame she wasn't screaming though. She probably figured—correctly, he guessed—that the Joker might use the golf iron if she started yelling for help. Even so, it was a pity.

It was remedied, however, when Ramirez caught sight of her mother in the corner, and began shrieking her head off, at a pitch reminiscent of a banshee. Jonathan was unable to keep himself from smiling, though he doubted Harley would appreciate it.

"Son of a bitch!" she screamed a moment later, when she'd recovered enough to shout actual words, apparently.

"Hey." The Joker's tone was mildly offended, though he was still smiling. "That's my mother you're calling names. And I happen to love my mother, even if she was wasn't, uh, exactly the world's greatest parent. Speaking of which, do ya wanna know how I got these sca—"

"You killed her!" Ramirez shrieked, tears running down her face. Jonathan would give anything to have this on film, but he wasn't about to risk the clown's displeasure by filming before being ordered to do so. "You bastard! You killed my mother!"

"Did I?" Surprised, the Joker turned to regard the body lying in the corner of the room. "Ah. So I did. Er…sorry about that, I only wanted her knocked unconscious…woulda made ya a lot easier to interrogate with her to threaten…damn. Look, I'll make it up to ya." He pointed to one of the henchmen. "That guy? The one who broke her skull. Watch this."

He reached into Jonathan's pocket, pulling out the gun, and before the lackey could react, fired twice, both shots hitting the man in the chest. The door behind him was suddenly coated with blood, as was the other henchman, who watched his companion fall to the carpet twitching, but showed no emotional response. The Joker handed the gun back to Jonathan, who repocketed it. Harley looked horrified and he knew he should be concerned about her, but it was hard to care with Ramirez lying there, in such beautiful panic.

"There. See? We're even."

Ramirez didn't answer, just continued crying. She was a silent crier, which disappointed Jonathan. Still, the look of fear in her eyes was more than enough.

"Ya can turn the camera on now, scaredy cat."

Jonathan nodded, hit the button, and watched the screen flicker to life. "It's on."

"Good. Ya got it focused?"

He fiddled with the controls for a moment, then nodded.

"Good. Start recording." The Joker waited for the red light that signified recording to come on, then smiled at the camera, so widely it almost looked painful. "Good evening, Gotham City. As ya may have heard, the Batman has, uh, fallen out of favor with the GPD at the moment." He smacked his lips. "More specifically, been accused of five murders, including those of Harvey Dent and Salvatore Maroni." He paused, licking his lips, then continued. "But the truth is, Batman is innocent, and tonight, I'm gonna prove it."

He walked over to Ramirez, Jonathan following with the camera, and knelt beside her. "Hello!" he said brightly. "And what's your name?"

Ramirez didn't say anything, just whimpered. Her eyes flicked from the Joker to the camera, then to her mother, and back. He waved a hand clad in purple leather across her face. "Hel-_lo_? Anybody home in there? I asked ya a question."

Shaking, she moaned.

He sighed and stood. "Look, lady, let me show ya something. See this?" He waved the golf club in his hand, narrowly missing her. Ramirez nodded, tears running down her face.

"Right." He crossed the room to her mother's body, swinging the iron as he did. "Well, if ya continue to oh so rudely ignore me when I talk, this—" He wound back and brought the iron crashing down on one of the body's arms, cracking the bone so much that it bent the wrong way.

"_Mother!_" Ramirez screamed. Beside her, Harley gasped.

"This is what'll happen to ya," the Joker continued calmly, practically skipping back to her side. "Got it?"

_God, he's brilliant, _Jonathan thought, watching Ramirez's silent tears give way to full-blown sobs. _Disgusting and unlikeable, but brilliant. _What he'd done with the golf club…incredible. After all, it wasn't pain that caused fear, but anticipation of pain, and mixing that with the mutilation of a loved one…genius.

"Now," said the Joker, sitting down on the carpet, legs crossed, like a child. "What's your name?"

"A-A-Anna Ramirez," she managed, between sobs and gasping breaths.

"A-A-Anna Ramirez," he repeated, rolling the Rs. "And you're a detective for the GPD, aren't ya?"

"N-not anymore," she said, eyes locked onto the iron still in his hand.

"Oh?" He feigned interest. "Why not? Ya do something wrong?"

She stared at him, her breathing somewhat more under control than before, though still shaky. "Wh…what is this about?"

In response he brought the club down on her hands. Jonathan could hear the bones crack, even over Ramirez and Harley's screams, the latter in shock, the former in agony. He was somewhat disappointed himself, as they'd moved past fear and into torture. "Ya know," the Joker said conversationally, "I've always preferred knives, but I, uh, I think I could get used to this. Remind me, Anna, who's running the interview here?"

She said something between shrieks, but it was unintelligible.

"What was that, Anna?"

"You are!"

"Don't forget it. Now, why'dya lose your job?" He raised the iron again.

"Because I worked for the mob!" she screamed, flinching back. "Please don't hit me again!"

"I won't, if ya don't act stupid." He lowered his hand. "The mob, eh? So tell me, the night Rachel Dawes died, didya have anything to do with that?"

She responded by sobbing again, head dropped down, tears and snot dripping onto her broken hands. The Joker let her carry on for a moment, then grabbed her ponytail and jerked her head back. She screamed.

"Didya have anything to do with that?" he repeated softly.

"I…I…" she sobbed. "I took her to Maroni's men that night!"

"Uh-huh." He released her hair, but she remained facing the camera. "Now, the night I was captured, according the police files, ya went missing for a little bit. They kept, up, kept trying to contact ya, but ya didn't answer. Thought ya might be dead. And then it turned out ya'd been knocked unconscious somewhere. Who did that to ya?"

Jonathan watched, enraptured, as comprehension slowly dawned across Ramirez's face. "I…I…it was the Batman!"

The iron came down on her shin this time, and this time she screamed loudly enough to drown out the cracking sound. It was a low, ugly sound, like a dying animal.

"Wrong answer, Anna." His eyes were glittering, an 'oh shit, run' sign if ever there was one. "Because the Batman was taking me down when your little story takes place. So it couldn't have been him. Who was it?"

"Batman!" she screamed, eyes wrenched shut with pain. "It was him, I swear it was hi—"

CRACK. There went the other leg.

"Listen, bitch." His voice was soft, but audible over the screaming, somehow. "I'm not an idiot, and I _know _you're lying. And ya know how it makes me feel when ya lie? Like ya think I'm stupid. And that, Anna, makes me incredibly pissed. Now, who knocked ya out?"

Ramirez stared up at him, agonized but silent. Amidst the fear, Jonathan thought he saw defiance in her eyes. As did the Joker, who brought the iron down again, and with another sickening crack, broke her left arm.

"It was Harvey Dent, wasn't it?" His voice was growing louder now, which Jonathan took as a very bad sign. He supposed it wasn't often people refused to do what the maniac wanted. "Dent attacked you for taking his woman to the mob, just like he attacked Gordon's family and killed everyone else. It was Dent, wasn't it?"

"Y-you're crazy," she spat out, trembling in fear and pain yet still keeping her voice strong.

"No, I'm not. No, I'm—" The club shattered her right arm. "—no_t_. And you're gonna die in about ten fucking seconds unless ya start telling the truth, bitch."

"The t-truth," Ramirez stammered, tears pouring out of her eyes. "The truth is, I've already b-betrayed the police once, and I'll never—"

He slammed the club across her ribs.

"—d-do it again!" she screamed, blood coming out of her mouth with the words. "And y-you can take that and s-shove it up y-your ass, you crazy—"

"_Do NOT call me crazy!_" And suddenly the Joker was on top of her, like one of the attack dogs he was so fond of, swinging madly. "You fucking _bitch!_"

Harley grabbed hold of his free arm. "You're gonna kill her, Mis—" And was promptly backhanded off without so much as a glance in her direction. Jonathan stood, too transfixed to move, still filming. The display had long since stopped sparking his interest in fear, but like a train wreck, he couldn't turn away.

"This—" he brought the club down on her face, smashing her nose and cheeks, and making her unleash the most unearthly screams yet—"—is what—" And brought it down again, smashing what remained of her nose back into her head—"—happens when ya—" Again—"—lie to me, stupid _cunt!_" He continued swinging, though Ramirez was clearly dead and little remained of her face but a red, bleeding crater into her skull, flecked with bits of bone and eye. No one even tried to stop him, just let him run out of energy on his own. Beside him, Jonathan heard Harley retching.

He kept the camera on the Joker as he stood, staring down at his own handiwork. For a moment he seemed amused at his handiwork, quickly replaced by a look that unmistakably said, "Well, shit, who am I supposed to use _now_?" That look, however, was traded almost as quickly with his usual slasher smile.

The Joker turned, walking over to Jonathan, who flinched. The clown pulled the camera from his bandaged hands and held up, about five inches from his own face, smiling into it.

"_Gor_don," he said, drawing out the first syllable. "I know you're going to see this. And I _know _that the Batman didn't kill those people. Dent was my masterpiece, Gordon, it isn't _fair_ to me to cover up his accomplishments. It's not _nice._"

He paused for breath, licking his lips. "You're gonna give Gotham proof that the Bat is innocent, proof that it was their _White Knight _behind those murders. Actual, tangible proof, so no fair giving a press conference and then saying ya just did it to placate a madman. Because if ya don't, I'm gonna start killing indiscriminately. Young, old, boy, girl, I don't care. But they'll all die _horribly_."

The Joker stopped again, briefly turning the camera to Ramirez's corpse, lingering over what had once been a face. Then he turned it back to himself and smiled. "Ya can be sure of _that._"


	28. Communication

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: Thanks again to my friend Colton, this time for providing the French in this chapter. I wish him the best of luck in his NaNo endeavors. Also thanks to my Latin professor, for providing me the knowledge of the language that I used in this chapter. (Which I'm sure is horribly mangled and would pain him to read.)

And, as always, thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The Joker switched the camera off and handed it back to Jonathan, who stood frozen with shock. Harley, kneeling on the carpet, was equally still except for some persistent facial twitches that seemed to indicate she was battling the urge to be sick again. The Joker himself turned to regard Ramirez's corpse again. For a moment his shoulders tensed, and Jonathan stiffened, wondering if he'd attack the body again, but then he seemed to decide against and merely walked off with a mutter of "stupid bitch."

Jonathan extended the hand without the camera to Harley, who took it. He could feel her trembling as he pulled her up. Damn. It'd been easy to overlook her during the madness that had just occurred, but now that he noticed, she wasn't in good shape. He supposed the transition from mild-mannered psychiatrist to serial killer's assistant wasn't one that happened overnight. His own start of darkness had occurred long before he was employed at Arkham, so he didn't know from experience, but it seemed it would be hard.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, her hand still in his.

She nodded, wiping a hand carefully across the back of her mouth, to avoid smearing the paint, he guessed. She did not look all right.

"C'mon guys."

At the sound of the Joker's voice they both jumped, Harley breaking the contact between them and running to his side. "Okay, Mistah J!"

_So her response to finding she disagrees with his actions is to throw herself back into catering his every whim, _Jonathan noted, holding in a sigh as he followed. _That's healthy. _He stepped over Ramirez, casting an almost involuntary glance to what remained of her and fighting back a shudder. The self-proclaimed master of fear shouldn't be made to tremble at the sight of a corpse…but it wasn't so much the disfigurement that bothered him as the reminder of the sheer lack of control he'd just seen.

No one said a word on the way back out, and they encountered no one in the halls. Jonathan didn't want to think about what would have become of anyone they did see. The moment the van doors closed behind them, the Joker took off, tires screeching against the pavement as they left.

"What about your men?" Harley ventured timidly, casting a glance to the lone lackey in the back seat. If he had any opinions about leaving the others behind, he didn't show it. _Smart man, _Jonathan thought. Lack of attachments added at least a year to the lifespan of the average henchman, by his estimate.

"What about 'em?" Joker answered, taking a turn so sharp the life wheels left the ground for a moment. Harley gripped the sides of her seat; the golf iron, though bent out of shape from its unconventional use, managed to roll around the floor, leaving specks of flesh and blood on the carpet.

"W-where are we going?" Jonathan asked, flinching as soon as the words left his mouth, though he doubted the clown could reach him from the driver's seat. Not that such petty things as the laws of physics would stop an enraged Joker. He clutched the camera in front of him, hoping that would offer some protection. The tape inside was important, after all.

"Beer," Joker said, jerking the wheel just in time to keep from running off the road. Harley whimpered.

"Beer?" Jonathan repeated, incredulous.

"Beer."

Absolutely lost, he caught Harley's eyes in the rear view mirror, raising his eyebrows as if to ask, 'What the hell is going on?' She shrugged, looking every bit as confused as he did. Wherever they were going, the Joker and alcoholic beverages couldn't possibly be a good combination.

* * *

It turned out to be a bar, in the Narrows, which should have been a bad sign, but the building they pulled up to looked decent. More than decent. Nothing spectacular, but given the location, it was high class.

"We're just going to walk in?" Jonathan asked, staring, as the Joker helped Harley out of the car.

"That's generally how ya get inside a place, scaredy cat."

He rubbed his temples, managing to get the bandages caught in his hair for a few seconds. "We're going to _get shot._"

"Ah, ya worry too much," the Joker responded, already heading inside, one arm around Harley's shoulders. The lackey followed not far behind.

"God_damn it,_" Jonathan muttered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. There was no way this could end well, and he was tempted to stay out here until his companions were chased out by gunfire, or an angry mob. But then, there was no way being in the Narrows alone, unarmed, and at night could end well either, so with a sigh and a half-hearted attempt to make peace with any deities that may exist, he followed them in.

It was even nicer on the inside, surprisingly, as nice as any bar in the civilized parts of the city. Jonathan would have stopped to admire it, had his focus not been on the Joker, who with no regard to his safety or life, or that of his girlfriend, had marched straight in and announced his presence by shouting "My children! Your savior has returned!"

_Oh, fuck. _Jonathan's eyes darted about the room, searching frantically for a place to hide from gunfire, and finding nothing promising. _We're going to die, we're going to die, we're going to—_

He stopped panicking abruptly, when another look around the place showed that they were not, in fact, being shot at. Or attacked in any way. In fact, aside from looking decidedly more nervous, the patrons and staff were going about their business as usual.

_The hell? _He could see people in the better parts of the city not trying to attack the clown prince of crime, maybe, though there'd be a lot more crying and praying in those places. But this was the Narrows. Many people were insane,—some, he thought with pride, as a result of his own toxin—others desperate, and still more just not giving a damn if they lived or died. Joker's reputation or not, he'd have expected at least one attempted murder.

Ahead of him, Harley, looking just as lost as he felt, was tugging on the Joker's sleeve. He couldn't hear them over the jukebox in the corner blaring something obnoxious, but it looked as if the Joker might be explaining why they weren't all dead. He'd have to ask her later.

Like an episode of _The Twilight Zone, _they were all able to order drinks—Jonathan excluded, he didn't want anything and didn't ask—and even sit down without any protests or gunshots. Bewildered, he turned to Harley. "What kind of a place is this?"

"What?" she asked, frowning, her own voice barely audible over the music.

"Why aren't we dead?" he tried, louder this time.

"It's a mob bar," she explained, half-shouting, between sips of her Cosmo. He wondered how she managed to do that without smearing her face paint, or lipstick at least, then realized he was thinking about women's cosmetics and stopped. "And you know how Mistah J tore the mob apart last time he worked with them, right?"

Ah. Well, that explained a lot. "So they don't dare touch him?"

"They don't even make him pay," she said, admiration glowing on her features. "He's brilliant, isn't he?"

_In the name of all that is pure and good in this world. _Which, going by his views, wasn't much, but it was the thought that counted. "I take it you're over the face-beating-in thing, then?"

She shuddered. "God, don't bring that up."

"How can you stand to work for him, if everything he does disgusts you so much?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he stiffened, casting a glance to the Joker to see if he'd offended him. For once in his life, though, it appeared fate was on his side, as the clown was currently seated before several beers and various mixed drinks, including, Jonathan noted with wonder, a Backdraft, and seemed to be working on making them all come out even.

"He's not a bad person!" Harley insisted. She seemed to have given up sipping and downed the rest of her drink in one swallow. "He's just…very goal-oriented." Jonathan fought the urge to make a smart remark. It wasn't worth getting into. "I'm going to get another drink."

She stood, and he noted that her gait was already a bit disjointed. Lovely. He supposed he'd be functioning as the designated driver of the night.

He sat, watching as she started a conversation with the bartender that didn't look like it was going to end anytime soon. She'd begun drinking heavily. He supposed it was her way of coping with the madness that had become part of her life. Whatever it was, it wasn't healthy. _I suppose it's a good thing she's not pregnant._

Nice as their surrounding were, it was still serving as a reminder of why Jonathan hated bars to begin with. It was full of smoke, which was to be expected, but no less annoying, and loud, drunken people, also to be expected, and also irritating. And damn whoever had invented the jukebox. Damn him, and damn his entire family to hell. If he heard one more blaring rock song, he'd start taking some of the Joker's flaming cocktails and throwing them in people's faces.

He stood, hoping to find a bathroom and few minutes peace and quiet, and got about a foot from the table before a hand clamped around his wrist. A hand which, from what he could feel through his sleeve, seemed to be wearing a leather glove. _Oh, for the love of Christ. _

"Hey, Jonny." The words were slurred, not surprising, given that the Joker was so drunk, he was having trouble focusing his eyes. "Why aren' ya drinkin'?"

"I don't drink." He considered pulling his hand free, but thought better of it. Just because the Joker appeared to be a happy drunk didn't mean it was time to start tempting fate.

"Whaddya mean ya don' drink?"

He noticed, amid the slurring, a speech impediment he'd never noticed before. The words weren't enunciated fully, something he supposed was caused by the scars restricting facial movement. The clown must usually put effort into speaking that he wasn't in a state to do now. "I'm on antipsychotics. You can't drink with those."

"Sure ya can. Have somethin'."

"I don't—"

With a tug of his arm, he found himself sitting on the Joker's lap. _Dear God. _Thank heavens Harley was still preoccupied, if she saw this, she'd probably steal someone's cell phone to snap pictures, and then he'd never live it down. "Have somethin'."

"But I—"

"C'_moooon,_" he whined, sounding so much like a five year old it was hard to believe he'd brutally murdered not long ago.

"Fine."

"Yay!" The hand not clutching his wrist reached out, picking up one of the many glasses from the table and handed it to him. "This 'un's called a _Joker_." He actually made an effort to say the name correctly, making sure the R was pronounced. Even wasted beyond reason, his ego remained.

_What have I done to deserve this? _He had no choice but to drink. It wasn't bad actually, tasting like a mix between orange juice and Kool-Aid, and if not for the warmth in his throat when he swallowed, he wouldn't have known it was alcoholic at all.

"Sooo, how da I _taste_?" the Joker asked, grinning, and Jonathan had to fight the overwhelming urge to be sick.

"It wasn't bad," he muttered, face feeling as if it were on fire.

"Puddin'!" Harley's voice, shriller than ever, rang out from across the room. Jonathan wished his other hand was free, so he could cover his ears. She bounded over to them, nearly falling too many times to count. "Puddin', ya can' let Jonathan _drink!_"

Ah, she was a loud drunk. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse.

"It's no' my fault," the clown slurred. "He begged me fo' it."

"I did not!" Unsurprisingly, his protests were completely ignored, as Harley leaned over and pulled the glass from his hand.

"Bad Jonathan!" she scolded. "Ya gotta take better care of yaself."

"You're one to talk. You can't drink this much, this fast. Especially when you're not eating." He shot a glance to the Joker. "Or mixing drinks."

"Ah, I can handle myself. Ya gotta live a li'l, scaredy cat. Gawd, ya're almos' as repressed as the Bat…" He trailed off, drinking out of one of the many beer bottles seated before them. He was barely coordinated enough to get the bottle to his mouth, Jonathan noticed. Most of the make-up around his mouth was gone, probably washed off by drink spills.

His mention of the Batman sent the wheels in Jonathan's head spinning, back to the events at Ramirez's apartment. "Why do you want to prove the Batman's innocence, anyway? Don't you hate him?"

"Because I made Harvey a killer, an' I wan' my genius recognized. 'Sides, Bats's the yin to my yang, an' I don' wan' the police interruptin' our eternal struggle." He seemed to focus a little more when he spoke of his foe. "If anyone's gonna stop Batsy, it'll be me. See, scaredy cat, _le mal gagnera toujours, parce que le bien est stupide__._"

_What. The. Fuck. _The Joker was bilingual when he was drunk? He wasn't even slurring. How in the hell? "You speak French?"

"_Oui, mon amour._"

"_Mon amour_?!" Just when he thought life couldn't make any less sense.

"_Oui, mon amour._" His smile looked strangely sincere, which just made things all the worse. "_Je t'aime, parce que même si tu est ennuyeux et ridicule, tu me fais sourire__._"

_For God's sake._ "_Sī_," he began, struggling to remember what he'd learned in college. "_Sī amās mē_—"

"_Quoi_?" Good, so he didn't speak Latin. Maybe Jonathan could confuse him into letting go.

"_Sī amās mē_," He didn't know how to translate Joker into Latin, and wasn't sure if he could anyway. "_O stulte,_" Close enough. "_No tenēs mē nunc._"

"_Quoi?_"

"_Amābō tē."_

"The hell?" As he'd hoped, the Joker let go, and he all but leapt up. "Ya speakin' in tongues or somethin'?"

"In a manner of speaking," Jonathan said, straightening the sleeve the Joker had been holding. "And I think you two have had enough to drink."

"I'm jus' gettin' started," the Joker protested, and was suddenly, violently sick over Jonathan's shoes.

* * *

Once he'd cleaned the vomit off, he'd demanded they get back in the van. It seemed impossible, telling the Joker what to do, but by that point he'd all but entered a black out, and the hardest part about it was dragging him into the van. He did it alone, apart from Harley's help, which was more of a hindrance, as the remaining henchman had long since disappeared. He was grateful, as he had a hard enough time remembering the way back to their own apartment, and didn't think he could handle driving somewhere else as well. Especially not with the Joker riding shotgun.

Despite being too drunk to know his own name, the Joker was somehow still coordinated enough to open his window and lean out it like a dog, which he insisted on doing, despite Jonathan's protests. At least he'd gotten the seatbelt over the clown with only minor struggle. Well, a split lip, but in dealings with the Joker, that was mild.

With only two wrong turns, amazingly, they arrived at the apartment with no trouble, and no police or bats in pursuit. Getting the pair up the stairs was straining, and he probably pulled several muscles doing it, but the process took less than an hour, and they managed to stay conscious until he got them through their apartment's door.

Deciding against pulling them into the bedroom—he did not want to clean vomit out of the carpets in the morning—he ended up covering the bathroom tile in blankets and dumping them there, careful to turn them away from each other so the Joker wouldn't slap Harley for being sick in his hair, or something. Then he went through the cabinets, pulling out all the coffee and tea and caffeinated that he could find, as well as all the painkillers. They'd need it.

That done, he collapsed on the couch and fell asleep almost instantly. He stayed that way for two blessed hours, until the Joker's first bout of vomiting woke him up.

* * *

AN: The conversation between Joker and Jonathan, in case you were wondering:

Joker: See, scaredy cat, (French) evil will always win, because good is dumb.

Jonathan: You speak French?

Joker: Yes, my love.

Jonathan: My love?!

Joker: Yes, my love. I love you, because though you're boring and ridiculous, you make me smile.

Jonathan: (Latin) If…if you love me—

Joker: What?

Jonathan: If you love me, fool, you will not hold me now.

Joker: What?

Jonathan: Please. (Literally I will love you, but it's an idiom.)

Yeah. I'm confident in my friend's French but not sure on my Latin. If I did mess up in there somewhere, and you speak it, and it's driving you mad, let's just pretend Jonathan screwed up because he hasn't spoken it in years.


	29. Hangover To Shame All Previous Hangovers

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings.

AN: So, I suppose I should be studying for psychology tomorrow, but here I am. Note to self: You have reading glasses for a reason, don't type your NaNo count for the day without them, because now your head hurts and your vision's all wonky. Yeah, I'm a smart one. Thanks for the reviews!

**Also**, I apologize profusely if the coffee joke in this chapter offends anyone. I wasn't trying to be rude, it just struck me as the type of thing the Joker would say to get a rise out of people.

_

* * *

_

This really isn't fair,

Jonathan thought, around five in the morning, as he held the Joker's hair back. The Joker, vomiting uncontrollably, wasn't exactly able to do it himself. Actually, Jonathan wasn't sure if he'd even woken up. The only reason he was being sick in the toilet instead of on the floor was because Jonathan had moved him. _Lucky bastard._

And it wasn't fair at all. He'd been the only responsible one in the bar, and how was he rewarded? By being made to wallow around in other people's sick. He'd never asked to be here in the first place. He supposed that were he religious, this sort of thing would test his faith. _I should just let him choke on it, _he thought, glancing down at the Joker. _Not like he doesn't deserve it. And it might be interesting to watch._

This particular batch of heaving seemed to have stopped, the Joker as out of it as ever. Jonathan sighed, and dragged him back onto the blankets. He wondered, watching the sleeping maniac, if he did choke on his vomit, would he die in his sleep or wake up first? Because if he woke up, his panic would be delightful…

_And then Harley would find out, _he reminded himself, hopes sinking like a lead balloon. While she didn't think of him as evil now, he wasn't sure she'd feel the same if he let her love die. Her devotion to him may have been twisted and nonsensical, but it was strong. _I could say it was an accident…_

No, it wouldn't work. Besides, somewhere deep down, so deep he was hardly aware of it himself, he wanted the Joker around. He was repulsive, both mentally and physically, violent, abusive, and absolutely mad, but he was interesting. And Jonathan, curious as always, wanted to see what he'd do next. To get a glimpse into his brilliant, if disturbed mind.

Harley cemented her position as his favorite companion—not that there had been any real contest—by only having one vomiting fit in the night. As opposed to the Joker's four. He wasn't sure if it was because she hadn't drank as much, or had a better tolerance, or hadn't mixed as many drinks. Probably a combination of the three. Whatever it was, he could have kissed her for it.

Around ten in the morning, when his legs had gone numb from sitting on the edge of the bathtub and he'd finished everything in the apartment he'd been remotely interested in reading, Jonathan got up to prepare for their awakening. He found nothing a value in the medicine cabinet, besides a bottle of multivitamins that upon further inspection turned out to be empty, and so headed into the kitchen.

The carton of orange juice he'd bought was still mostly full. That should be useful. The refrigerator was almost bare, but the freezer held an unopened bag of frozen strawberries, and there was a Ziploc bag full of peeled bananas. He had no idea why someone would keep a bag of frozen bananas around, but potassium was helpful against hangovers, so he didn't question it.

He managed to find a toaster and a blender under the sink, only mildly coated in dust. They still worked, anyway. There was also a loaf of bread, though half of it had developed bright green mold. Disgusted, he salvaged what was still edible and threw the rest away.

The Joker woke up about half an hour later, broadcasting his consciousness through a series of loud moans. If he was grateful when Jonathan appeared in the doorway, aspirin in hand, he didn't show it. "I'm lying in puke."

"I know." He held the pills out, a glass of water in his other hand. "Here."

He took them, wincing as he swallowed. "What the hell's in this water?"

"Salt and sugar."

He blinked, his makeup so smeared most of it was gone. What remained of the white had mingled with the black enough to turn gray. "Why?"

"I put it there."

"Obviously." Jonathan couldn't tell if the edge in his tone was from annoyance or pain. "Why the hell did ya do that?"

"Salt to replenish sodium and sugar for glycogen. It'll help, trust me."

The Joker grimaced, chugging the rest of the glass. Jonathan watched him for a moment, before heading back to the kitchen. He returned a second later, with a new glass and plate.

"What's that?" Joker asked suspiciously.

"Smoothie. And peanut butter toast."

He stared. "Do I even wanna know?"

"Orange juice for vitamin C and energy, bananas for potassium and electrolytes, the toast for hunger and vitamin B."

The Joker tilted his head and him, glanced at Harley still asleep beside him, himself, and then back to Jonathan. "How come ya aren't sick too?"

"I didn't drink," he said, holding out the plate.

He didn't take it. "Why do ya know so much about treating hangovers, if ya don't drink?"

"Because my mother drank. Do you want this or not?"

He regarded it, as if the mere thought of food would make him sick again. Perhaps it would. "Couldn't I just have coffee or something?"

"Not yet, no."

"Why not?"

"Because it'll make you more dehydrated. The smoothie does the same thing coffee would, and it won't make you sicker. You could at least try it."

He took it, staring down the plate as if it was his arch nemesis. "I dunno if I _can _eat like this. My whole head's throbbing like an impacted tooth."

"I imagine you've had a lot of those," Jonathan said drily, glancing at the clown's mouth.

"Shut up." He began tearing the toast into bite size pieces and chewing them slowly. "If I could trust myself to get up without falling over, I'd hit ya."

"Lucky me."

"What happened last night, anyway?" He looked so confused that Jonathan almost laughed. Sociopathic killer or not, sitting there bewildered with his make-up a mess and his hair standing up in every direction, he looked about as dangerous as a slice of pie.

"You took us to a bar in the Narrows, and mixed about twenty different kinds of drinks. It was quite possibly the stupidest drinking binge I've ever seen."

"Ah, you're exaggerating. I didn't mix that much."

"You most certainly did. And then you were sick all over me."

He laughed weakly, then seemed to regret it, rubbing his temples with a scowl. "At least I had fun."

"Is that what you'll tell your liver when it fails?"

Beside them, Harley opened her eyes, glanced at the light streaming through the window, winced, and shut them with a whimper. Jonathan drew the shades as she sat up, and returned with more toast and smoothies. Harley couldn't remember the events of last night either, so he narrated their adventures once more.

"And that's when we left," he finished, as Harley sipped at her glass.

"Sounds like we had quite a time," she mumbled, grimacing at her own voice.

"Oh, you did. Believe me." He turned to the Joker. "I didn't know you speak French."

"I don't." The clown stared back at him blankly. "Where'd ya get that?"

"You spoke it last night. Quite a bit."

"I think, uh, ya must have been drinking too, because I don't know French."

"So what, you just magically know it when you're—"

"You weren't drinking, were you Jonathan?" Harley asked, sounding surprising stern for someone in too much pain to fully open her eyes. "Because that's really bad for you, you know. You could make yourself seriously sick."

He sighed. "Harley, I didn't drink—"

"Ah, ya say that now," the Joker said. "What about then? I bet ya had as much as either of us."

"Right. Which is why I'm as sick as you guys are."

"So ya gotta stronger constitution. Most hardcore alcoholics do." He turned to Harley, who was peeling off her mask, face contorted in pain. "Harley-girl, you should have a talk with Jonny about his destructive habits."

"Whatever." He stood up, taking the Joker's empty plate with him. "You two should take baths, by the way. Hot ones. It helps you sweat out the toxins in your body."

"'Kay," Harley said weakly.

"Supervise each other while you do it," he added, pausing in the doorway. "In case one of you passes out in the water."

"Yes, sir!" The Joker saluted him, eyeing Harley with a look that plainly said he'd be doing more than supervising, he'd be in the bath with her, and likely washing her off in all the wrong—or right, depending on how one looked at it—places. It was remarkable, in a revolting way, how he could work up such physical exertion after alcohol poisoning.

Much splashing and sounds Jonathan wished he could block out of his memory forever, the two emerged from the bathroom, disappearing into the bedroom for few minutes. When they came into the kitchen, Harley was in her normal civilian clothes, the Joker in his suit as always, his make-up reapplied.

"Can we have coffee now?" Harley asked, sliding into a chair at the table.

He nodded, putting the pot on the table. "But you should use honey instead of sugar."

She wrinkled her nose. "Why?"

"One, because your body absorbs it faster, and two, because it's better for you. But you can use sugar if you want, I guess."

"I," said the Joker, pouring a cup, "like my coffee the way I like my slaves. Black."

His companions stared.

"I am shocked and appalled," Jonathan managed, sitting down.

"God, I wasn't _serious._ Besides, it was worth saying just to see your expression. You're such a woman, Jonny, ya know that?"

He arched a brow. "Not being racist makes me a woman?"

"I'm not racist, I'll kill anyone."

Jonathan put his head on the table. "Because that's so much better?"

"You're one to talk, with your fear toxin."

"What I don't remember," Harley said, squeezing honey into her glass from a bear-shaped plastic container, "is why we went to a bar in the first place. Weren't we carryin' out a plan?"

Jonathan stared, wanting to explain that fiasco about as much as he wanted to French kiss the Joker again. "You don't remember anything about it?"

"I remember…" the Joker began. "Let's see…there was a golf club…and ya had the camera…and…uh, did I kill a bitch?"

"Yes. Yes you did. You know what?" He stood, retrieving the camera from the living room coffee table, and returned, handing it to the clown. "Just watch this. I don't think my commentary can do it justice."

They watched, Harley growing paler by the second, the Joker cheering on his onscreen self. "Damn. I'm badass," he said, flipping the camera shut. "And now, we have our next order of business."

"What would that be, puddin'?" Harley asked weakly, pushing her mug away. She looked disgusted, not that Jonathan could blame her.

"First, get this to the news stations. And then, find a new hideout. My men killed a lot of the people in that building, am I right?"

Jonathan nodded.

"Then someone's surely happened upon the bodies by now. We gotta get outta here before Batsy can track us down. He's good at showing up at the least opportune moment, ya know."

"Tell me about it," Jonathan muttered.

"Wait, how are we going to get that camera inside a news station?" Harley asked. "I mean, it's kinda your MO now, Mistah J. Won't they be watchin' for you?"

"Glad ya asked, Harl." He leaned over, putting on arm across her shoulders. His other hand held the camera out to her. "Since ya asked, I'm gonna give ya the honor of delievering it."

Harley went nearly as a white as she was with the greasepaint on, swallowing nervously. "S-sure thing, puddin'."

"That's my girl." He stood, taking his arm off her. "Let's go!"


	30. Most Common Superpower

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of its characters/settings. I am planning to order a Harley Quinn costume pattern off the net though, because it will be awesome. And I've already found a Joker to order me around next Halloween…this is unhealthy.

AN: Wow, chapter thirty. It's kind of crazy, looking back, how far this has come, since I had nothing more than a vague idea when I started off. And I couldn't have done it without all the reviewers! I love you guys. I know reviewing seems like a minor thing, but seriously, it keeps the writers going. Thank you!

To answer Laura's question, the hangover cures came from Internet research, not from my personal experience. I'd test them, but I'm both legally and physically unable to drink, and I don't want to be hungover in the name of research. Though I've been known to do stupider things in the name of writing.

Anyway, this chapter title is in reference to the fact that most girls in comics tend to have terrific figures and wear very tight clothing. It'll make sense when you read that part, I promise.

* * *

"Right now?" Harley squeaked, still pale.

"No, next week. Of course right now." He set his coffee mug on the table, empty. "Why'd ya think I told ya to get ready?"

"I didn't know I'd be going in public like this." She shifted in her chair, twisting the cuffs of her sleeves in her hands. "Can I change first?"

"What's wrong with what ya got on?"

"She's wearing a red shirt and black pants, with her hair in pigtails," Jonathan pointed out, stirring his tea absently. "Which is rather reminiscent of her harlequin costume, pictures of which I'm sure have been all over the city. And she's about to go into a news station, probably the only place that has seen those pictures more than the GPD. No, you're right, there's nothing wrong with that at all."

"There's no need for smart remarks, scaredy cat."

"Even when they're the only smart thing in the room?" he retorted. "We're going to get caught. Couldn't you just pay someone to take the camera in for you?"

"I can handle myself, Jonathan." Harley stood, looking annoyed. "I just need to get a different outfit. I'll be right back." She walked out briskly, as if moving quickly would hide that fact that she was shaking like a leaf.

_Lovely. I'm the only one with common sense here. _He wasn't sure why that should come as a surprise, but he'd thought Harley would recognize the unnecessary risks they were taking. Apparently not. That, or she'd chosen to ignore them. Probably the latter. He fought back the urge to sigh.

Across the table, the Joker frowned into his empty coffee cup. "What are we supposed to do while she's changing?"

"Get our things together?" Jonathan suggested. "We're getting a new hideout after this, aren't we?"

"Ah, she threw everything in bags after we got outta the shower."

"But you were in the bedroom for what, five minutes at the most?"

Joker shrugged. "She moved fast."

_So Harley's an indentured servant on top of everything else. Lovely._ "You could check the news stations. See if the cops have found out the bodies yet."

"Good idea." He stood, stretching, took a few steps to the door. "Aren't ya coming?"

"I really don't care if we've made the news."

"Oh, don't give me that. You're trying to tell me it doesn't thrill ya to see the city speculating about your plans, going on about your latest act of genius?"

"I'd care if I'd actually done something." He sipped his tea. "All I did was hold a camera. Have fun."

The Joker crossed his arms, foot tapping against the linoleum tiles. "Get up."

Jonathan sighed. "You don't even like me. Were it not for Harley, I wouldn't be here at all. Why do you care whether or not I watch your new reports?"

"Don't think so highly of yourself. I don't care if the Scarecrow is impressed with me or not. But genius deserves an audience, and ya can appreciate what I do more than those simpleminded newscasters. Up."

"You know, my license may have been revoked when I was committed," Jonathan said, then drained the rest of the teacup. "But for what my opinion's worth, I don't think it's a good idea for me to enforce your pathological need for attention."

"Fine. No more Mr. Nice Joker." He felt the clown's hands around his waist, and in a blur of movement was lifted unceremoniously from his chair, thrown over the Joker's shoulder, and carried out.

"Hey!" He struggled uselessly for a moment before giving up. Joker was far stronger, and his position wasn't lending him any advantages. "Put me down, I'll walk."

"Nope, ya had your chance." The Joker giggled, in a lighthearted manner that would have sounded innocuous had it come from anyone else. He skipped into the living room, nearly making Jonathan lose his glasses and his lunch. With another jolt of movement, he found himself sitting on the couch, the clown's hand in a death grip around his wrist to prevent his leaving.

It became apparent, once the TV was switched on, that the bodies had been discovered, very recently, and the police were still gathering information. The news anchor took time to specify that there were no certain suspects at this time, then instantly switched over to Joker speculation. It seemed to Jonathan that whenever he watched the news, every crime in the city, from mass murder to hit-and-runs, was speculated to be the Joker at some point. Thus, the report wasn't very exciting.

Not for him, at least. The mere mention of the Joker's name seemed to send the clown into some sort of ecstatic fit, bouncing in his seat, shaking Jonathan's arm every five seconds or so, and generally acting like a child whose birthday had come early. "Jonny! Jonny, they're talking about us."

"So I can hear," he said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. It wasn't as if Joker was listening. "And so you've told me about eighty times in the last minute." He really did have a pathological need for attention. Had it not been so annoying, Jonathan might have been intrigued.

"Aw, now they're talking about some stupid flood."

"I can see that. They do talk about more than one thing on the news, you know."

"Well, they shouldn't." He pouted. "I'm more interesting than 'dozens evacuating their homes' or whatever the hell they're talking about. Hey, where's my cell phone? I should call 'em."

"No, you shouldn't." The Joker's hand was trailing off his wrist, and Jonathan grabbed hold of him to keep him there. "Don't you have any sense of self-preservation? You'll get us caught, and the Batman will not be happy to see you."

"Are ya holding my hand?" Joker asked, incredulous.

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?"

"Ya _are _holding my hand." He smirked. "Told Harley you're gay."

"Wait, what?"

At that moment Harley reentered. "Well, boys, whadda you think?"

Jonathan's hand abruptly dropped off the Joker's as he sat gaping. Beside him, the Joker did the same.

Harley had curled her hair. He wasn't sure how she'd done it, as he hadn't seen any curling irons or the like in the bathroom earlier, but she'd managed it, and now it looked as if she had twice as much hair as before, hovering around her head in thick gold ringlets. Her face was mostly obscured by a pair of enormous, mirrored sunglasses, but her mouth was still visible, coated in lipstick so red it was probably the Joker's. After taking all that in, however, he found he could not tear his eyes away from her chest.

He was not the sort to leer at that part of a woman, or even notice it in most circumstances, but Harley had made it rather impossible not to look there. First off, her shirt was a hot, near fluorescent pink, bright enough to leave an afterimage, he noted when he was able to look elsewhere. What's more, it was skin tight, to the point that he thought he could see the outline of her navel through the fabric. But more than anything, it was low-cut. So low-cut that he was amazed it was able to hold her in. She was perhaps one centimeter away from indecent exposure, or less.

The Joker whistled. "Da-_amn, _Harl, why haven't I ever seen ya in _that _before?"

"I was savin' it for a special occasion," she said mischievously. "I take it you like it?"

Jonathan was finally able to stop staring at her chest and caught sight of her miniskirt, also less than an inch from indecent exposure. "Harley," he managed hoarsely. "What are you wearing?"

She pouted. "You don't like it?"

"Don't mind Jonny, women make him uncomfortable. It's not what ya got on, it's his homosexuality."

"Oh, shut up," Jonathan muttered. "But seriously, is that the best thing to wear when you're going for low profile?"

"Well, yeah." Harley said, pulling the shirt up slightly. He averted his eyes.

"I have to say I'm not following your logic."

"Well, the photos of me on the news have either been me in the harlequin costume or me as Dr. Quinzel. Who wore her hair pulled back and clothes that didn't emphasize her form that well. They won't be lookin' for a girl like this." She struck a pose, while Jonathan fought the urge to find a nice, long trench coat to protect her modesty with. "Besides, I think it'll distract people from my face."

"It's certainly working for me." The Joker stood, wrapping his arms around her. "I mean, look at ya." He leaned in to kiss her on the neck, before she pushed him back gently.

"Not now, puddin', you'll get make-up on me."

"So?"

"So someone might see it." She did consent to kissing him on the mouth, which only made her lips a little redder than before. "Later, okay?"

"Aw, take all the fun outta life."

Jonathan didn't know what unsettled him more; the fact that all that stood between them and capture was Harley's breasts, or that her plan was probably going to work.


	31. Spur of the Moment

AN: I really should be doing homework, but here I am. Ah well, that's what weekdays are for. Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

"Do I get a weapon?" Jonathan asked, putting the last of their bags into the van. Harley was staring at her gun, probably wondering where on her extremely exposed body she was going to hide it. She settled for her purse.

"Why do you need one?"

"I don't know. Maybe to defend myself if we're recognized and fired upon?" he suggested, averting his eyes as Harley stepped into the passenger's side, her skirt utterly failing to cover her. Her underwear, from what he saw, appeared to be the same hot pink as her shirt. _I will never be able to un-see this, _he thought, sighing inwardly as he got into the back.

"Well, you don't have to be sarcastic about it." She considered. "I don't have any other guns…wait a minute…" She zipped the purse open, shuffled through it, then reached back to his seat, dropping an aerosol canister into his hand. "Here you go."

He stared. "What is this?"

"Mace, silly. It says so right on the front."

"I can see that. What purpose can this possibly serve if I'm being fired at?"

Harley sighed. "It's all I've got, unless you wanna borrow one of Mistah J's knives. I don't like you having a weapon anyway."

"Here ya go." The Joker took one hand from the steering wheel, fumbled with his coat for a moment, then dropped a shining metal implement in Jonathan's hand. "Have fun."

"Is this a potato peeler?"

"Yep."

"And this qualifies as a weapon how, exactly?"

"If you're not creative enough to figure out a use for it, I'm not gonna tell ya." His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, taking in Jonathan's bandaged hands. "And be glad I'm letting ya have anything, cutter."

"What do you use this thing for, anyway?"

"To take skin off," he said matter-of-factly, taking a turn fast enough to nearly flip the car.

"Ugh." Harley winced. Jonathan wasn't sure if it was from fear of the Joker's driving, or disgust at his weapon uses. Maybe both.

Despite the fact that the Joker drove like an angry, drunken teenager, they managed to make it to the news station without incident. It appeared God did look out for fools after all. Of course, that begged the question of what kind of god would protect the Joker, but Jonathan was willing not to question it, for fear of jinxing their incredible luck.

"I'm off!" Harley announced, somewhat successful in keeping her voice from shaking, as she stepped out of the van, clutching her purse in front of her like a shield. They watched in silence as she made her way across the parking lot, finally disappearing inside the sliding glass doors.

_Fuck, _Jonathan thought, his teeth shredding what remained of his nails. _She is going to get shot. And then my friend will be dead. And then I'll be stuck with the Joker. I'm not sure which is worse._ He felt a sharp pain and blood in his mouth and withdrew his fingers, wincing.

"Ya bite your nails?"

"So?"

The Joker shrugged, watching him in the mirror. "Ya don't swallow 'em, do ya?"

"No. That's disgusting."

"What, more disgusting than making yourself bleed and spitting 'em out? Anyway, ya know your body can't digest your nails? Like, if ya swallow em for long enough, they get stuck inside and make ya sick?"

He blinked, glancing down as this ragged nails, the bandages pushed away from his fingertips by his teeth. That couldn't be true. "Where in the body?"

"Your appendix, obviously. Along with chewing gum and all the other stuff the body can't digest. Why do ya think the appendix bursts? Because it gets full of that stuff."

"That is absolutely ridiculous." It sounded like one of those stupid stories kids told each other on the playground. Right up there with 'writing on your skin with a ballpoint pen gives you ink poisoning' or 'you can't get pregnant if you have sex standing up.' Come to think of it, that last one was more likely to be told by teenagers, but it was the same principle.

"That's what ya say now. Just wait until you've got appendicitis, and then see how ya feel."

"Why would it get stuck in the appendix? Why not the stomach or the small intestine first? It makes no sense."

"It's nature. Nature doesn't have to make sense."

"It's not true."

"Fine. When ya end up in the hospital, don't say I didn't try to warn ya."

"Whatever." Jonathan looked back to the doors and stopped in mid-bite of his other hand. "She's back." Harley was making her way back towards them, moving quickly, but not running. He couldn't see her expression, partly due to the distance she had yet to cover, and partly due to her sunglasses, but there didn't seem to be anyone following her. He took that as a good sign.

"They took it," she said breathlessly, as she got back in. The door was barely closed behind her before they were off, tires shrieking against the pavement.

"No one suspected anything?"

"The guy I gave it to didn't even ask what it was for, he was too 'preoccupied.'" she said, grinning. "On the way out, some delivery boy was so focused on me that he walked into a wall."

"So, can I kiss ya now?"

"You're driving, puddin'."

"What's your point?"

_We're going to die, _Jonathan thought, as they leaned towards each other, the van barely staying on the road. The indignity of it; escaping capture just to die because making out was more important than watching the road.

Yet somehow, they didn't, despite about five close calls. Jonathan had never believed in the devil, but he was beginning to think the Joker must have sold his soul to something, to have such incredible luck. When they finally stopped, a full minute later, it was only because the right side of the van had gone off the edge of the pavement.

"I've got it!" the Joker said, abruptly turning off into a parking lot. Against the light. Jonathan fought back the urge to choke him. "I've figured it out."

"Figured what out, puddin'?"

"That driving like a blind person isn't a good idea when we're trying to keep a low profile?" Jonathan suggested. He was not surprised to find himself ignored.

"How people are gonna die today. Remember, what I said on the tape?" Harley nodded, and he went on. "Well, I figured out how we're gonna do it."

Jonathan found he'd become desensitized enough to the clown's madness that the idea of him planning murders while kissing his girlfriend didn't even warrant an eyebrow raise. "And how is that?"

"We're gonna murder a whole bus," he said, waving a hand towards the bus stop by the parking lot.

Jonathan stared.

"A…bus?" Harley repeated.

"Yeah. Genius, isn't it?"

"And just how do you propose we do that?" Jonathan asked.

"Well, first, we're gonna get on the bus—"

"You're in full make-up!" Jonathan protested. "You think they won't notice that?"

"So I'll wipe it off."

"You'll still have the scars and the outfit."

"Details." He rolled his eyes. "Look, the point is, we get on the bus. Harley, ya stay in the front, I'll go to the back, and scaredy cat, ya threaten the driver into pulling into an alley or something and stopping, so we don't run the risk of crashing. Then Harley and I open fire, and fast, before anyone can call the cops on their cell phone. Any questions?"

"Is there any particular reason I've got the front door?" Harley asked.

"Because it's smaller and harder to get to, and you've only got one gun." He pulled his coat slightly open, revealing the machine pistols strapped to either side. "And I've got more shots."

"What am I supposed to threaten the driver with?"

"Ya got the Mace and the potato peeler. Be creative."

"Can I at least have a real knife?"

"No."

_Christ._ He watched without comment as the Joker pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed it across his face, until all the remained of the make-up were faint traces of black around the eyes and red around his mouth. "See? This'll work fine."

"Oh yes, because green-haired men with Chelsea grins in purple suits are completely inconspicuous," Jonathan said drily, as he slid open his door.

"Sarcasm's just a crutch to hide your own insecurities, Jonny."

"Guys." Harley had a warming tone in her voice, as if that would do anything to deter the Joker. "Come on, we don't need to be arguin' with each other right now. And Jonathan, it wouldn't kill you to be a little less doom and gloom." She stepped out, giving him what would have been a perfect look down her shirt had he not turned away.

"Even when the doom and gloom is horrifyingly accurate?" he muttered, following behind her.

They came to the bus stop and sat, Harley with one hand on the gun in her purse and tightly squeezing Jonathan's hand with the other, Jonathan sitting on his free hand to avoid another lecture on nail biting, and the Joker waiting for pigeons to get close enough for him to try stabbing them with his switchblade shoes.

About five minutes later, a bus came to a halt before them. Harley and Jonathan turned to the Joker, who stopped, mid-pigeon kick, and nodded. They stood, Harley's hand still in a death grip on his, and his other hand clutching the potato peeler so tightly it had gone numb, and stepped inside.


	32. Smile

AN: Hectic day today. Wrote an essay, NaNoWriMo-ed, and studied for a math test. Yes, in that order, because reaching my daily word quota is more important than making sure I'll do well in my worst class. Sometimes I wonder about my priorities. Anyway, thanks for the reviews and onto the chapter!

* * *

Sooner or later, their luck had to run out.

It just had to happen. Sure, there was nothing too ludicrous about this one of the Joker's ideas, at least nothing worse than his usual "plans" tended to be. And there was no reason his incredible luck shouldn't carry over to this plan. That didn't make Jonathan any less tense as he followed the Joker onto the bus.

_There's being lucky, and then there's tempting fate, _he thought, watching the Joker make his way down the aisle towards the back. They'd been fortunate so far, yes, but carrying on in this manner was like buying a gun, putting it in the mouth, and firing. Sure, there was no reason for the gun to be loaded, but who would be insane enough to take the risk? Especially multiple times, like they'd been doing?

He was amazed by his ability to walk; he felt so stiff with tension. It was only a matter of seconds until someone recognized them and started screaming, or dialing the police. Or worse, one of the passengers could be armed; it was a very real possibility in Gotham. He could picture it: the Joker bleeding to death in a public transit, his death coming not at the hands of the police or the Batman, not even in a spectacular way, just a switchblade to the right spot between the ribs. Gotham's greatest legend since the Bat, gone, due to his own stupidity. It would have been amusing were he and Harley not likely to be killed as well, should they be recognized.

He sat, or dropped, nearly, into the seat directly behind the driver's chair, clutching the potato peeler tightly enough that its handle was beginning to dig into his hand. The force of his grip wasn't helping his cuts either; several of them seemed to have reopened. Still, the pain was trivial in comparison to his anxiety. His heart was pumping so loudly it almost drowned out the darkness in his head, which had chimed in with renewed fervor since the Joker had announced his plan.

He watched, struggling to look nonchalant, as the Joker sat, ready to jump up and run should the need arise.

It didn't.

Unbelievably, the clown was able to make his way to the back and sit without incident. Jonathan had to bite his lips to keep his mouth from falling open. Yes, the make-up had been wiped off. But this was still a green-haired, Chelsea-grinned man in a purple suit, for the love of God. In Gotham. Was everyone on this bus blind, or was the Joker a master of instant mass hypnosis? _Magnificent bastard, _he thought, with grudging respect.

The bus jerked back to life, stunning Jonathan out of contemplation and back to the job at hand. Ah. So now that they'd managed to get on the bus alive, there was the small matter of coercing the driver to follow his orders armed with only a kitchen implement and a can of Mace. Without getting them all killed. This should be fun.

He considered it for a few seconds, came to the conclusion that he had no idea whatsoever of how to go about this, and relented to letting the darkness take over for a few minutes.

Scarecrow also had no plan, but didn't hesitate to slide his hand in the space between the wall and the driver's seat, shoving the tip of the peeler into the driver's side just enough to cause pain. There was a sharp intake of breath from the man.

He leaned forward, free hand on the driver's shoulder before he could react. "Hello. Don't scream or I'll kill you." He glanced into the rearview mirror. If any of the passengers had noticed, none of them were reacting. "Don't try anything either. You'll regret it. You won't live long, but you'll really regret it in the time you have left."

He watched the man in the mirror. He'd gone pale, shaking, looking a few seconds from being sick, but he wasn't trying anything. Ah, this was fantastic. It was a shame he'd be killed off so quickly; Scarecrow would love to keep this up for hours. "W-what do you w-want?"

"I want," he said brightly, pushing the metal a little harder against the man's side, "you to pull into the nearest alley and stop there. And don't ask any more questions." He watched the driver's cowering reflection and smirked. For all his time spent developing the fear toxins, and careful plans and tests on when and how much to use, it'd been easy to forget the simple pleasure of scaring someone without it. It was a nice reminder that he didn't anything but himself to be horrifying, and that spur of the moment scare-fests weren't so bad. Maybe the Joker was onto something after all.

"I-i-is this a r-robbery, or—"

He pushed the potato peeler forward again, surely bringing moderate pain by now. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't I just tell you not to ask questions?" There was no response, save a frightened whimper. Scarecrow grinned. "Now turn, and fast, before I change my mind about killing you quickly." He had no control over how fast the man died of course, that was up to his comrades, but he'd forgotten how fun lying was as well, since he wasn't dishonest with Harley and the Joker could tell anyway.

Tears in his eyes, the driver complied, making an abrupt right turn and switching off the ignition. The passengers stared for a moment, glancing around their surrounding in confusion, before starting to stand and call out. He could see Harley standing out of the corner of his eyes, watched the Joker do the same in the rearview mirror, and ducked.

The bullets started flying a second later.

The driver was hit. He wasn't sure who by, as he wasn't stupid enough to look up, but he felt the blood spray his bandaged hand, still placed between the seat and the wall, saw the body slump sideways from his position on the floor. He withdrew his hand with a giggle that turned into a roar of laughter as he listened to the screaming around him, punctuated with gunfire. It was like music, only better. If only there were some way to record it…he imagined a soundtrack of screams, compiled from all his victims, and started laughing all over again.

The shooting continued for a few minutes before tapering off. He stood to find the windows splattered with blood, like a modern art painting on the inside of a bus. Bodies littered the aisle and lay contorted in the seats. He looked around, enthralled. The bus hadn't even been that full. Fifteen people at the most, maybe, but the amount of blood was staggering. It wasn't quite as entertaining now that they were dead, but a look of horror was frozen on the face of every corpse—save the few with looks of bewilderment, he supposed they were the lucky ones who'd been shot first—and that was a thing of beauty in itself.

"Here." He tore his gaze away from one of the bodies, an elderly man who looked as if he'd died mid-scream, to find the Joker and Harley at the center of the aisle, the Joker's hand emerging from his coat and giving Harley a knife.

"What's this for, puddin'?"

The Joker smiled widely, his scars making the grin look even larger. "We're gonna put smiles on all the bodies here," he explained, "so there's no confusion as to who's behind it. Let the cops know I wasn't making idle threats."

"Okay!" She nodded, hair swinging around her head, though Scarecrow couldn't help but notice she looked pale. And also that her shirt was as splattered with blood as the window panes. Well, good. He hoped it was ruined, if only so he'd never have to see her wear it again.

She started at the middle of the bus and worked her way back, the Joker working his way to the front. Not having a knife, Scarecrow merely watched. The smell of blood in the air grew even thicker. He imagined the look on the cops' faces when they discovered the bodies and bit back a new fit of giggling.

"Ya did good, scaredy cat," the Joker said when he reached the front, ruffling his hair with a bloodstained glove.

"Thank you." He smoothed it back into place, feeling new blood on the bandages. It occurred to him, vaguely, that any one of the passengers could have AIDS or some other blood borne illness, but he was too entertained to care. Maybe he'd been wrong about the Joker. Anyone who could provide this sort of amusement couldn't be all bad, could they?

His consideration was cut short by a pained moan, followed by a high-pitched shriek. He and the Joker both jolted, turning in Harley's direction.

"What's wrong?" Joker sounded annoyed, and a look in his direction showed the body he'd been working on was sporting more of a frown than a smile. He must have jerked the knife when Harley screamed.

"I—this—s-she's still alive, Mistah J!" Harley pointed with her bloodstained knife at the woman sprawled on the backseat, blood oozing from her moaning mouth. "She's still alive!"

"So?" Joker asked, and Scarecrow was inclined to agree with him, until he got a closer look at the victim. She was late twenties it seemed, with long blond hair and a…maternity shirt.

_Oh Christ. _And just like that, the joy of the moment was gone. Jonathan didn't particularly care about the state of the woman's uterus, but Harley…he couldn't imagine what she must be thinking, face to face with a someone so like her in a predicament she could easily have been in.

"Just cut her," said the Joker, his own knife flashing and spreading blood as he worked to fix the corpse's ruined smile. "She hasn't got long anyway."

"B-but—but puddin', I can't—"

"Harley." There was a note of warning in his voice now. The anger was subtle yet somehow still easily noticed, even over the woman's wordless shrieks. "Finish it."

"But I—I can't—"

"I will," Jonathan offered, taking a step forward, only to find the Joker's knife in his face.

"_No_," he and Harley said at once.

"I don't want you getting' involved in this Jonathan." Harley's voice was shaking, her expression of utter revulsion as she stared from the knife in her hand to the woman lying on the seats. "Mistah J, I _can't_—"

"Cut her or I'll cut you," he said simply.

_Son of a bitch_. Jonathan had never wanted to break his arrogant face more than at that moment, but he wasn't stupid enough to try it with a blade half an inch from his face. He watched, helpless, as Harley stuck the knife, shaking as badly as she was, into the woman's mouth, screaming over top of even the victim's shrieks as she sliced through the flesh. First one side, and then the other, and then she flung the knife to the floor, sobbing.


	33. Unforgivable

AN: Why write essays for class when I can write new chapters? …If I fail out of college, dear readers, can I live with you? Just kidding, I'm actually doing quite well despite my slacker tendencies. Thanks for the reviews, as always!

Random thought for the day: I just realized my mental image of Harley is a mix of her animated series version and Sarah Michelle Gellar. I have no idea how this came about, as I mentally link Sarah Michelle Gellar with Buffy, girl power hero, whereas Harley was the world's biggest "Unhealthy Relationship" poster girl until Bella Swan. I guess my mind is just wired funny. And Buffy's relationships were never all that healthy either. Onto the chapter!

* * *

They made their way back to the parking lot without being intercepted. It seemed no one had heard their antics. Jonathan would have found that incredible, but after he saw the Joker walk onto a bus in almost full costume and not get caught, little things like citizens overlooking a bloodbath seemed mundane in comparison.

He tried to stay beside Harley, difficult as she wasn't walking so much as dragging herself forward an inch at a time, bloodstained shoes shuffling forward at the speed of molasses. He nearly tripped more times than he cared to keep count of, moving at her pace. She was still crying, albeit silently now. _Probably figured the Joker didn't want to hear her sob._ That would be typical. All she carried about was making her lover happy, and look where that had gotten her.

The van still there, another small miracle, given that they hadn't locked it. Jonathan took shotgun, much to Harley's surprise. He decided it was best she didn't sit next to the Joker, in case he was annoyed over the questioning of his orders thing. He fastened the seatbelt, looking up from the clasp to find the Joker giving him the same bewildered stare Harley had, from the driver's seat.

"Why are ya up here?" he asked. There was no irritation in his tone, so Jonathan was going to assume that didn't mean 'get out.'

"I…like the view?" he offered. _Oh, that's not idiotic and unbelievable at all._

Joker blinked, several times. "You're not coming onto me, are ya?"

"What?" He was too stunned to even be annoyed.

"This, uh, this wouldn't be an attempt to get, ya know, closer, would it? Because you're not my type, scaredy cat. Sorry to disappoint, but that's how it is."

"Your constant remarks about my sexuality wouldn't be projections of your insecurities regarding your own, would they?"

He shrugged. "Hey, if ya need to try and convince yourself that I swing that way, go right ahead. But don't say I didn't warn ya. It wouldn't work out between us at all."

Jonathan gritted his teeth, ignoring the darkness in his head suggesting he tell the Joker exactly what he could do with his theories. "You are impossible."

"And that's what makes me so loveable." His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "Right, Harley-girl?"

"Right, Mistah J."

Her voice sounded flat, empty. Jonathan glanced back to find her sitting, head dropped, hands dangling at her sides. She was staring down, either at her bloody shoes or the carpet. He hoped it was the carpet. At least that wouldn't give her a visual reminder that she'd just sliced open a conscious, pregnant woman.

He was biting his nails again, almost unaware that he was doing it, wondering how he was going to help her get through this one. Somehow he doubted 'Joker didn't give you a choice' would help, given that she was the one who decided to break the clown out in the first place. And then move in with him. And help him with his plans. And have sex…and that train of thought was leading nowhere helpful. He shook his head slightly. What was he supposed to do in this situation? None of Arkham's therapy sessions, group or solo, had ever covered 'how to comfort a friend who's just mutilated someone and left them for dead.' Nor had any of Nigma's soap operas. He doubted it was something normal people had to deal with.

The ride was entirely uneventful, as was the process of moving into a new hideout. This time it was an office building, which the Joker assured them was no longer in use. Jonathan didn't know how he knew that, and neither he nor Harley asked. Abandoned buildings had been cropping up more frequently than usual over the city, anyway; with the economy what it was, few had money to buy buildings when the businesses there went under.

There wasn't much dust on the inside, so it couldn't have been out of use that long. They found two dilapidated couches in the break room, no doubt left behind by the company because they were garish, threadbare atrocities that were barely holding together. They were old, breaking, and had probably been copulated upon more than once, but it was better than sleeping on the floor, so he didn't question it.

The moment her bags were set on the floor, Harley was on one of the couches, out like an axed Bat Signal. Jonathan didn't have a watch, but it couldn't be much later than six. He was concerned for her, but decided it was trauma-induced exhaustion and that she'd probably be happier sleeping it off. Still, he doubted sleep would do her any good if she woke up still covered in blood.

His eyes drifted to her bags, lying at the foot of the couch. _I suppose I could get something else out and put it on her…no._ There was always the chance she'd wake up mid-way through, and take it poorly, or the Joker would object. Besides, friends or not, blood or not, possible permanent mental scarring or not, he was not comfortable enough around Harley to remove her clothes for any reason that wasn't medically essential, and doubted he ever would be.

It proved not to be necessary anyway, as he found once he returned from the bathroom. He'd been trying to scrub the bloodstains off his own clothing, unsuccessfully. It was a shame, really, this particular shirt was a nice, subdued shade of hunter green that didn't make him want to dye it black or burn it. Once he'd given up, around twenty minutes after he started, he returned to the break room to find Harley on the couch, still asleep but now clad in pajamas. He glanced at the Joker, who was watching the news on a small, black and white TV in the corner, and back to his friend.

Jonathan couldn't figure out if changing her clothes had been a genuine moment of compassion on the Joker's part, perversion, or just something he did because he could. He decided he was better off not knowing. She looked so small, an odd observation coming from someone his size, so helpless lying there. Her pajamas, flannel and decorated with sushi, like a child's, weren't helping. She looked too innocent to be in a place like this, with people like the Joker and himself, and he felt an ache in his heart for her.

Forcing himself to look away before he was overcome with the urge to carry her out of here like a knight in shining armor, he made his way to the opposite couch and sat beside the Joker. "Have they mentioned us yet?" he asked, carefully to keep his voice low.

"Yep. They just found the bodies. They'll be playing the tape we made any second now, wait a minute, here we go…"

It had been heavily edited of course, going straight from the moment Joker repeated Ramirez's name to his message to Gordon at the end, eliminating the shots of the corpse that had appeared during that moment as well. Still, the power of the Joker's threats weren't diminished in the least. Actually, he imagined the edited version would be more terrifying to someone unfamiliar with the situation than the full tape; unable to know what happened in between, their minds would fill in the gaps. And the imagination tended to come up with the most frightening tortures of all.

The report was back to the bus now, faces of the corpses blurred out as they were wheeled away on gurneys. A reporter was running around like a vulture, half shouting questions at the paramedics and being generally ignored. Jonathan watched for a bit, contemplating, before turning to the Joker. "Do you realize how angry the Batman will be?"

"Counting on it." He sounded hopeful. "That cop, those people today, there's no challenge to it, Jonny. It's like taking shots at a coma victim, ya won't miss, but there's no real victory. Bats on the other hand…his response makes setting all this stuff up seem worthwhile. And he's so much more fun when he's angry, ya know?"

Jonathan thought of his encounter with an angry Batman in the basement of Arkham, the gloved hand nearly ripping his hair out, the toxin sprayed in his own face, and shuddered.

"Relax, scaredy cat." The Joker patted him on the shoulder. "What can he possibly do to ya that's worse than what's already happened?"

"You're not helping," Jonathan muttered, imagination running rampant.

"I'm the one he'll be going after," Joker continued, hand still rubbing his companion's back. "Besides, he doesn't kill, remember?"

"You'd be surprised what you can live through."

"Fine then, Mr. Negative Nancy. Ya know, for someone who's supposed to scare other people, you're kind of a coward."

He glared. "You'd have to be insane not to be afraid of the Batman."

Joker shrugged. "Guilty as charged, I guess." Jonathan blinked. So it was all right for him to insinuate that the Joker was crazy, but when Anna Ramirez had done the same thing she'd had her face bashed in? It made no sense, but then, the Joker never made sense.

* * *

Jonathan drifted off sometime between seven and eight, his last waking thought that he was starting to lean against the Joker in drowsiness, and that he should probably move. After that, nothing.

He awoke in the night. He had no idea what time it was, having no watch and the room having no windows to see the sky through, but the room was dark, he was lying on the couch alone, and the Joker was gone.

Cautiously he stood, readjusting his glasses on his face, and took a few careful steps forward, eyes squinting at the floor to make sure he didn't trip and break his neck over anything. Harley was still on the couch, though lying in a different direction now, as if she'd gotten up at some point in the night. He couldn't tell whether or not she was asleep.

"Harley?" he whispered, barely able to hear himself.

There was no response.

"Harley?" he tried again, a bit louder this time. Nothing. So she was still asleep then, though she must have woken sometime in that night. That, or she was capable of turning 180 degrees in her sleep without waking, or the Joker had repositioned her. Jonathan couldn't think of any reason the clown would have to do so, but he wouldn't put it past him. Besides, it wasn't as if madness needed reasons.

He sat on the arm of the couch by her head, holding in a sigh. Things seemed calm now, with her asleep and the Joker out of the room—where was he, anyway?—but he could just imagine what things would be like in the morning. Good night's sleep or not, he doubted she'd get over this so quickly. On the plus side, maybe she'd realize what a horrible man she was involved with and get out while she still could. On the other hand, that was never going to happen and even if it did, she'd still end up arrested or at least institutionalized for a long, long time.

"Why do you love him so much?" he whispered, reaching out and gently placing his hand on top of hers. He thought of the day she'd first held his hand, when he was telling her about his childhood, and how reassuring her touch had felt. He hoped that on some subconscious level, he could do the same for her now.

He sat that way for a minute or so, before loosening up, intending to head back to the couch. His hand trailed down her palm as he stood, ending at her wrist and feeling a wetness there that made him stop cold. He brought his hand, shaking slightly, to his face, stared at the dark liquid there. It was impossible to make out the color for sure in the darkness of the room, but the smell was unmistakable: blood.

"H-Harley?" He looked back down. She was still asleep.

Shaking, he knelt beside her, gently rolling her sleeve back. He almost cried out, staring in shock at the wound there, then rolled the sleeve up to her shoulder, still trembling. He closed his eyes and reopened them, but the words were still etching into the skin, legible even in the poor light.

_ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha_

Sickened, but carrying on from concern for her, he checked the other sleeve.

_ha ha ha ha hA HA HA HA _

It was emblazoned across her legs as well, and her back and stomach, as far as he dared lift her shirt. None of the cuts seemed deep, nothing life threatening, but that didn't stop his stomach from churning, nor his body from shaking as if in an epileptic fit. He knelt, shocked, staring at the words marring her skin, possibly forever.

_HA HA HA HA HA HA Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hA HA HA_

_I'm going to kill him, _he thought, the darkness taking over and Jonathan embracing it. Primal and vulgar, maybe, but it kept him from retching and gave him focus. _I am going to kill him for this._ He felt calm about it, really, no excitement, no fear, just the cold knowledge that anyone who would dare do this to his friend was going to die. Slowly and horribly.

He stiffened as he heard the Joker making his way down the hall, and began pondering his plan of attack.


	34. Explanation

AN: The silver hammer reference in this chapter, in case you don't get it, is from the song "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" by the Beatles. If you haven't heard it, do, or at least find the lyrics somewhere, it's lovely.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Scarecrow wasn't a split personality, per se, if he were, Jonathan wouldn't be aware of him. He was more similar to a person who was generally quiet and timid, but became assertive and loud if made angry enough. Scarecrow was more a facet of his personality than a separate entity; a very vocal facet that was always shouting in the back of his head like some sort of anti-conscience.

So, theoretically, Jonathan still should have had enough control of himself to come up with a plan in the time before the Joker walked in. Something like pretending to fall asleep and bludgeoning the Joker once his guard was down, or hiding behind the door and jumping him, or something like that. Both ideas that had a chance of working, however slight, and the rational part of him—which had been reduced to that voice in the back of the head, in the present situation—was begging Scarecrow to consider one of them, or something else. _Anything, _as long as it was subtle.

Unfortunately, at that moment Scarecrow was feeling about as subtle as Maxwell's silver hammer, and went with the plan he'd come up with, which consisted of launching himself into the hall and on top of the Joker. Not the wisest thing, as Jonathan let him know in a series of mental shouts.

The Joker fell back with a small cry, more from shock than any pain, and lay there for a moment, probably too confused to put up a fight, while Scarecrow threw punches. He didn't care where he hit, as long as he was hitting the clown. "You son of a bitch!"

"Er…okay?" He sounded confused, Scarecrow noted as he landed a right hook to the Joker's jaw. As if it made a difference. He could play innocent about this one all he wanted, it wouldn't save his life. "Uh…can I ask what you're—ow!" he said, annoyed as what remained of Jonathan's nails raked down his face, cutting swathes through the make-up. "Jonny, what the hell are ya doing?"

"Bastard!" The blows he was landing didn't seem to be causing any real pain, so he settled for grabbing hold of the Joker's hair and pulling, hard.

"Oookay." He sounded significantly less amused now. Scarecrow felt gloved hands take hold of his arms, flipping him over so he was the pinned to the carpet. "Can I ask what this is about?"

Scarecrow, trying and failing to pull free, settled for spitting in his face.

"_Dude. _Not helping out here, scaredy cat. What the hell is wrong with ya?"

"You bastard!" He pulled one leg up to his chest and kicked out, kneeing the clown in the groin. There was no effect whatsoever, and somehow that didn't surprise him. "Do you think I'll let you get away with treating her that way?"

"What?"

He managed to wrench one arm free and slapped the Joker's face, hard. "You hurt my friend and you're going to pay for it."

"I've got a great idea," Joker said, grabbing hold of him once more. "Let's assume for a second that I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, okay? Now calm down and tell me what's going on."

"As if you don't know." He was still furious, but it occurred to him that the Joker's confusion seemed genuine. But it couldn't be, because that made no sense.

"Are ya high or something? How many of those pills are ya taking?"

"You hurt Harley! Don't try to play innocent, I'm not going to fall for it. What I'm going to do—" He kicked again, to no avail. "Is rip your throat out, as soon as I get up."

"Jonathan, calm down." It was the first time he'd ever heard the Joker use his real name, and it was disconcerting enough to stop him for a moment, to note the absolutely bewildered look on his face. "What are ya talking about, that thing on the bus? You're just now getting mad about it?"

"I'm talking," he spat, "about carving up her skin, you son of a bitch. What, you thought I wouldn't notice the blood?"

Joker stared. "All right, I have absolutely no idea what you're going on about." He stood, making his way toward the break room, deflecting Scarecrow's blows with one hand, not even needing to look back to block him.

Harley didn't wake up when he switched on the lights. He crossed the room to her, looking down at her sleeping form, the cuts visible from where Jonathan had rolled up her sleeves. He stared at them, blinking, then turned to Jonathan. "What the hell did ya do to her?"

"What did I do?! Why would I cut her up? Don't try and blame this on me!"

"Well, it wasn't me." Joker glared at him. There was a faint sound, sort of a metallic whoosh, and Jonathan looked down to see the blades sticking out of his shoes. "Which tells me that this is your fault, and let me tell ya, scaredy cat, I don't like other people ruining my things."

"Eh…" Both of them turned at the sound to find Harley sitting up on the couch, eyes darting between the two of them. She yawned, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands, leaving faint smudges of blood on her face. "What's going on?"

"What the hell happened?" they asked at once.

She blinked. "What?"

"You and the blood and—and the cuts!" Jonathan managed. "What happened?" He shot her a glance which he hoped she was able to interpret as "If it was the Joker, let me know and I'll kill him for you."

If she had interpreted it correctly, she didn't say so. Rather, she glanced down at her exposed body, face reddening as she pulled her sleeves back down. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it?" he repeated, dumbstruck. "What do you mean, don't worry about it? You're bleeding!"

"Not anymore," she mumbled. It was slowly dawning on Jonathan that Joker may have been being honest about having nothing to do with her injuries, and the realization that came with that was even more unpleasant.

"H-Harley, you…" He stared, not wanting to go on, not even wanting to think about it. Of course she hadn't, she couldn't have. She would have no reason to. But then how else could she have ended up like this? "Did you do this to yourself?"

She didn't say anything, just sighed and looked away, but that was answer enough.

"B-but…but you…how—"

"Why?" the Joker asked, his voice steady, calm.

Harley sighed again, burying her head in her hands. "I don't know. Because after what I did today, I felt…dead, I guess. That's the best way to describe it. Empty inside. Not depressed, not angry, nothing. I thought maybe sleeping would help me get over it. It didn't. When I woke up I felt the same way."

"So you did this?" Jonathan asked, horrified. Self-mutilation wasn't an uncommon reaction for someone feeling apathetic; he knew that as a psychiatrist. It was a way of feeling again, even if the feeling was only pain. But Harley wasn't some patient he could care less about. This was his friend, and he'd sat by and done nothing while she suffered. Unforgivable, really.

"Yes. I know it was stupid, all right? It's just…I had to feel something. Anything."

"Why 'ha ha ha'?" The Joker's tone was still flat. Jonathan couldn't tell if he was irritated or amused.

"Because I was trying to make myself see the funny side," she whispered.

He felt an overwhelming urge to hug her, cut short by the Joker's next question. "Ya used one of my knives, didn't ya?"

"Yes. I found it in the bags."

He slapped her across the face, shoving Jonathan backwards when he tried to intervene. "Stupid bitch."

She just looked up, expressionless, skin already reddening from impact.

"Don't ever touch my knives without my permission."

_Unbelievable. _What, he cared more about the weapons than her mental health? That would be just like the Joker. He got back to his feet, not in time to stop the clown from slapping her again, feet twitching as though he was considering kicking her with the blades on his shoes.

"And don't ya _ever_ do something like that to yourself again, idiot. It's not funny when _you're _the one getting cut up." With that, he turned and stormed out of the room. He didn't bother to announce where he was headed, and Jonathan couldn't care less.

"Sorry," Harley muttered, rubbing her face.

"Harley…" he stared at her, unable to look away from the faint patches of blood showing through her clothing. The sight of blood had never bothered him before, but now it was sickening. "Harley, we should get out of here. Look at what this relationship is doing to you."

She sighed, lying back down. "It's not him, Jonathan. Really, it's not. I knew what I was getting into when I broke him out, this is all me. He didn't do this," she indicated her arm. "I did. And yes, it was stupid. Let's just pretend it didn't happen, okay?"

"You wouldn't have if it weren't for him!" he protested. "You wouldn't have done any of this if he hadn't—" he stopped, staring at her in disbelief. She'd already fallen asleep again. Ridiculous. It might be amusing if it weren't so sad. As it was, the whole thing came across as more tragic. And somewhat pathetic.

He stood above her, contemplating his choices. She couldn't stay here, that much was certain. What happened the next time one of the clown's schemes had an impact on her? What if she ended up killing herself? He shuddered, picturing it. No, she couldn't stay, that much was obvious.

It was also obvious that she wasn't going to leave on her own, for no comprehensible reason. Wild horses couldn't drag her from the Joker, utterly sick and wrong as their "love" was. Even so, she had to get out of here, and that would mean intervention on his part.

_She's going to hate me for this,_ he thought. _But it'll be worth it, if I get her away from him._

He knelt before her, careful to keep quiet, gently putting his arms around her. When she didn't stir, he stood, lifting Harley up with him, bridal style. Her breathing changed, but only for a moment, and then returned to normal. When it became clear that she wasn't going to wake, he tried taking a step forward. There was no change.

He tried another step, then another, then another, until finally he was walking through the hall and making his way down the staircase, out into the parking lot. She never even stirred, which he took to be some sort of divine intervention on his behalf. The van was still there, unlocked and empty. He lay Harley across the backseat, careful not to wake her throughout the process.

_So what if she hates me?_ He thought, turning his attention towards hotwiring the engine. _If it keeps her alive, fine. I can take it._


	35. The Ride

AN: Harley's revelation in this chapter is based on a speech of the Joker's in _The Killing Joke _about the pointlessness of life. It's a great book, you should read it if you haven't. Thanks for the reviews!

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Hotwiring wasn't as easy as movies made it look. Messing around with a few wires under the steering wheel wouldn't make it roar to life, it involved opening the hood and fiddling around in there, and the use of a screwdriver. Jonathan, not being the most mechanically gifted person in the world, took somewhere between twenty minutes and half an hour to do it, gashing himself twice by mistake and mixing swears in inventive ways he'd never tried before.

Harley didn't wake up during the process, not even when he got the engine on. He allowed himself to relax at that, at least for a few minutes. Then, mid-way through unlocking the steering wheel, it occurred to him that he had no idea where the Joker had gone. And since the clown had a habit of turning up at the worst possible moment, it was highly likely that he was somewhere nearby, probably planning a way to kill Jonathan for this. A slow, painful way, maybe spread out over weeks.

_Fuck._

He went back to panicking, and continued to do so as he sped off. Looking back, it would have been a good idea to come up with a place to go before taking off. At the time it hadn't seemed necessary, but nothing had, apart from 'get Harley out of here' and 'kill Joker.' He glanced down at the fuel gauge, swearing in several different languages upon finding there was only an eighth of a tank. Well, joy. What was he going to do when they ran out, go carjacking? It probably would have been wise to bring a weapon. All he had was the can of Mace still in his pocket, and that would do little against a car. He supposed he could find a mounted police officer and steal the horse, but he doubted he'd find one of those around. It wasn't as if they were common.

To make matters worse, it was nighttime. Not as though he hadn't realized that when he set out, his powers of observation weren't _that _lacking, but only now did it occur to him that the Bat prowled at night. Lovely. As things were, he figured he'd have to run into one of them before things were through, and he couldn't decide which would be worse.

He heard Harley sitting up from the back seat. _Oh, hell._ Well, things were going just beautifully, weren't they?

"Jonathan?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?" she asked, making her way up to the front, holding onto the passenger seats to keep herself from falling over as she did so. He supposed he was driving rather erratically.

"Driving."

She sat beside him, examining her surroundings with confusion. "Where's Mistah J?"

"Don't know, don't care."

Comprehension dawned across her face, quickly followed by anger. "Jonathan, just what do you think you're doing?"

"Getting us out of Gotham," he said, turning sharply. He had no idea where he was headed, but if the Joker was tailing them in some way, he wasn't about to make it easy.

"Turn around. Now."

"No." This was the first time he'd heard her sound angry since the day she'd ranted about Batman in her office. He didn't like it when the anger was directed at him. It was unnerving. "I don't care how much you love him, Harley, being around him is ruining you and we are not heading back."

"Turn around," she repeated. Her hand shot out, closing around his wrist, her grip tightening painfully. He tried to ignore it. After all, it wasn't as if it was hindering his driving, beyond making it harder to turn. "Jonathan, take us back _now._"

"Absolutely not. Look at yourself, Harley." He tried to keep his voice steady. Getting emotional wouldn't do any good at the moment, just cloud his judgment. "How do I know you won't slit your throat next time?"

She sighed. "Look, you're worrying yourself over nothing, all right? I told you, that wasn't his fault, I chose to do it—"

"So what?" He jerked the wheel hard enough to break free, almost sending her flying into a window. "You wouldn't have done it if he hadn't put you in that situation, so don't try and make excuses for him. I don't care about your love for him, I care about your well-being."

"If you cared about my well-being," she snapped, pulling herself back up, "you would know that separating me from him would make things worse."

"Really?" He was unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Because you already sound a lot more alive and in control of yourself than you did last time you were around him."

"You have no idea what you're talking about, you _idiot._" Her hands were back on him, trying to pull his own off the steering wheel.

"And you're calling me an idiot?" he asked, as the car swerved. "It'll be your fault when we crash, unless that's what you're trying to do. Have you become addicted to pain that quickly?"

"Shut up." Still, she let go, leaning back in her seat. He watched, whenever he glanced away from the road, as she closed her eyes tightly, chewing on her lower lip in frustration. "Look, Jonathan—"

"I am not turning around and nothing you do can get me to change my mind."

She made a noise between a sigh and a groan. "Jonathan, I promise I will not hurt myself again. That was stupid, I recognize that. But listen, what you're doing isn't going to help things. If anything, it'll make my emotional stability even worse than it's been."

"No, it won't. You'll be away from the source of the instability—"

"Whom I happen to have deep feelings for," Harley said, massaging her temples. "You think you can just pull me away from him, and I'll be a-okay with that? I know you're bad at relationships, but even you must know better than that."

He glanced in the rearview mirror, and seeing nothing there, decided to continue on down this street. "I don't care about your relationship. Yes, you'll be upset about it, but I still think it's better to be away from someone and be upset about it then have that person force you to carve up a pregnant woman and—"

"He only did that once!"

"What, and that makes it okay? Do you hear yourself, Harley? You sound like one of those 'common defenses for abusers' pamphlets they hand out in women's centers. He's psychotic, do you really think that's the only horrible thing he'll make you do if you stay with him?"

"Jonathan, you don't understand. He loves me. I know you don't believe that, but I also know without a doubt that he does. Just because he doesn't go about expressing it in the regular way—"

"What, because slapping you across the face counts as expressing love?"

"Don't interrupt. I shouldn't have worried him. Look, you're wrong about him, all right? Now turn around."

"No," he said, accelerating.

"Jonathan, take us back. Now."

"I'd rather go to Arkham than back there."

She gritted her teeth, eyebrow twitching. "Jonathan, as your psychiatrist and therefore an authority figure, I order you to turn this van around at once."

" I hate to break it to you, Harley, but I'm pretty sure they've revoked your license by now."

"Jonathan, I will _make _you turn around if I have to." Her hand was on his wrist again, squeezing.

"I'm not turning around, Harley. What are you going to do, hit me?"

"No." Just like that her hand was off him, her expression appalled. "Of course not. Why would you think that?"

He fought back the urge to smirk. Now to use her logic against her like she used to do with him. "Why not? It would get me to do what you wanted, wouldn't it?"

"Or make us crash. Besides, you're my friend. Just because I don't like your behavior right now doesn't make it okay to hurt you."

"But it would get you what you want," he repeated, shooting a glance to the mirror. There was a truck in the distance, but it didn't look like anything to worry about.

"God, you really have trust issues if you think I'd do that." She sighed. "Hurting people is not okay, Jonathan."

"Right. So it's not okay for the Joker to hit you. So we're not going back. QED." He didn't need to turn his head to know she was glaring at him.

"That is not the same at all—"

"Is so. Just because he doesn't like your behavior doesn't make it okay to hurt you, right? That is what you just said, isn't it?"

She shook her head. "You're taking my words out of context."

"Or, I'm keeping them perfectly in context, and you're just—"

BAM.

The sound, loud and sudden, like a fire cracker, made them both jump. A split second later there was a deafening bang, sounding as if something had collided with the fender of the van. Harley screamed.

"What the hell?" He glanced at the rearview mirror to find that the truck had advanced, now right behind them and weaving erratically. Unsurprising, because its driver, the Joker, was steering one handed while leaning out the window and firing at them. "_Shit_."

"Stop the car!" Harley shrieked, ducking down in her seat as the clown fired again, missing this time.

"Are you fucking serious?" he asked, flooring the gas pedal, taking a turn that raised the wheels off of the ground on one side. "He'll kill us if I stop!"

"He'll kill us if we keep going!"

"At least this way—"

BAM. Another shot, this one shattering the mirror on Jonathan's side. "_Shit shit shit shit shit_," he hissed, turning again. "At least this way, we've got a chance to get away!"

"Like hell we do! Jonathan, you're just going to make him angrier! Stop the damn van!"

"No!"

"_Goddamnit_, Jonathan!"

The next shot made the rear windshield explode in a shower of shards. Jonathan found himself offering short prayers to every deity in the history of religion, each consisting of about ninety percent obscenities. Beside him, Harley had buried her head between her legs, shaking.

Amidst his terror and rage, he felt guilt as well. In a way, this entire mess was his fault, for playing along with the Joker's plan to begin with. If only he'd scared Harley off, she wouldn't be here, about to be killed because of another idiotic move on his part. Sure, the Joker would likely have killed him, but it would have been worth it. "God, I'm sorry, Harley," he managed, swerving the van as the Joker fired again, missing this time.

She raised her head slowly, and he came to the confounding realization: Harley wasn't crying. She was _laughing. _

"Harley?" Well, shit. That couldn't be a good sign.

"You…you're ridiculous," she managed, before going into another giggling fit.

_Fuck. _As if he hadn't been frightened enough already, here was a new wave of terror. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen people's minds break before, but he'd always been the cause of the break, through chemicals, and it had always happened to people he couldn't care less about. Watching his friend stare death in the face and go mad as a result, that was terrible. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Don't you see, Jonathan? I finally get it now." She'd stopped laughing, but was sitting straight up, the smile on her face to near Joker proportions.

"Get what?" he asked, ducking as a bullet shattered what remained of the windshield.

"The joke." She hadn't moved at all. _Christ. _"I mean, look at you. You've been tryin' this whole time to get me to "see the light," realize what an awful position I'm in, and run away. And now you're gonna get killed for it. And the best part is, I still haven't seen any lights. We're gonna die, and I'll still be in love with the Joker. Get it? You risked your life for me for no reason at all."

"Excuse me if I don't see the humor in that," he said, ducking again as they turned. The van nearly flipped. Harley didn't react.

"Of course you don't. You're too serious. Look, here's the punch line, you've given everything, includin' your life, tryin' to save me, and it's all pointless! You've accomplished nothing, past bringin' about your death. And your life before that was useless too. You were finally startin' to overcome your miserable childhood and life of crime, and then the person who was supposed to be makin' you better broke you out and undid all she taught you.

"Now look at me. I worked my whole life to become a psychiatrist, and kept pushin' and pushin' until I got to high security, and tried as hard as I could to help you and Mistah J to prove it could be done, and for what? To go completely Looney Toons and lose everything I've ever worked for, not to mention made you worse. Don't you get it? Mistah J's been right the whole time, there's no point in tryin' to do good in the world, because nothin' anyone loves or cares about will ever amount to anything!" She leaned back in her seat, stretched her arms behind her head, the grin on her face huge and terrifyingly calm. "I finally get the joke. Too bad Mistah J'll never know that I did."

He stared, not bothering to watch the Joker behind him or the road ahead. What was the point? They were going to die anyway, she was right about that, and as an added slap to the face, he got to watch his best friend completely lose touch with reality before he died. "I am so sorry," he whispered, feeling tears start in his eyes.

WHAM. The van slammed into a solid surface, most likely a building, but it wasn't as if Jonathan could make out much, what with flying forward and slamming his head against the dash and all. He heard the front window shatter, felt glass fall over top of him, digging into his body when he landed on the carpet. His head collided against the floor, sending a new wave of stars into his vision and cancelling out all sound but the ringing in his ears. He could feel blood, coming from seemingly everywhere on his body, and his vision wavered in and out of focus.

Through it all, he remained conscious. It figured that fate would hate him that much.

He didn't know how long he lay there. It felt like hours, days even, but couldn't have been longer than about a minute. Regardless, the pain he felt lying was nothing compared to the agony when the Joker grabbed hold of him, lifting him by the shirt off the floor and out of the car.

"And where the hell were ya headed, scaredy cat?"

He didn't even bother to try answering. He doubted he was capable of speech at the moment, anyway. He was vaguely aware that the Joker was shaking him, demanding answers, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Puddin'!" A shrill voice broke through the ringing in his ears and into his brain, making him wince. He felt himself being lowered, suddenly, watched as the Joker turned towards Harley, doubtless asking her the same questions. Her response, however, was not to ignore him, but to run forward and jump into his arms. Jonathan noted that there was a large gash in her forehead, as well as bloodstains all over her pajamas, indicating that the cuts had reopened on impact.

"Harley-girl, what the hell were ya thinking?"

"Don't be angry with us, Mistah J, please. It's just…well, I wanted to go for a ride."

"Ya wanted to go for a ride," he repeated, flatly. Jonathan guessed that were she not already injured, he'd be hitting her again.

"I'm sorry, puddin', it's just that I felt so horrible, I just had to get out of that place. Don't be mad at Jonathan, he said we shouldn't go, but I made him."

"If that's the case," Joker said, turning to glance down at him. "Why the hell didn't he stop when I started firing?"

"Because you scared him, silly. He was too worried we'd get killed to stop."

"Ah. Makes sense."

"How'd you find us so fast anyway, puddin'?"

"I saw ya leaving." Most of the anger was gone from his voice now. Thank God. "I was on the roof, stargazing. After ya left, I got down and stole the truck."

Harley leaned forward, pressing her lips against his. "I'm sorry we scared you, Mistah J. It won't happen again, I promise."

"It had better not." He turned his attention to the shattered wreck that had once been a van. "I suppose we're taking the truck then. Get up, scaredy cat."

He prodded Jonathan with the toe of his shoe, the blade thankfully retracted. Jonathan moaned, wishing he was dead.

"I think," Harley said, sliding out of the clown's arms, "that we're gonna have to carry him, puddin'. He got hit a lot harder than me."

"Fine." With a sigh, the Joker knelt down and lifted him, Jonathan trying not to moan in spite of the agony he felt whenever his body shifted. He found himself laid out on cold metal, staring at the sky above. He didn't know how the Joker had been stargazing, the city lights blocked out anything from space, but he was too tired and injured to care.

Underneath him, the engine began to hum, the buildings around becoming a blur as the car sped along. It struck him that he was now hurt and still stuck with a homicidal maniac, with his semi-sane friend having gone absolutely mad, just to rub salt into the wounds. This was probably something he should be concerned about, but at that moment all he could bring himself to do was close his eyes and sleep.


	36. Overheard

AN: Sorry about the delay on this chapter, I'm visiting home for the weekend and it threw off my schedule a bit. I'm sorry to say there may be a similar delay tomorrow, as I'm driving back up to college and then really need to write an essay. Anyway, this chapter's sort of short, but it's working into the climax of the story, so I'll try to make it up with the next one.

Oh, and as a warning, it's true that mixing bleach and ammonia will make a poisonous gas. Do not try it at home. You do not have Joker Immunity, and you will die. You will die, and I'll find out somehow (probably in the form of a lawsuit) and become depressed, and the updates will stop. Don't do it.

_

* * *

__There is no feeling in the world more miserable, _Jonathan decided, as he lay on the couch wishing he was dead,_than waking up the morning after a car crash._ There wasn't a single space on his body that didn't scream in protest every time he attempted movement, his head especially, having been hit against the dash. It seemed even moving his eyes was enough to cause new waves of pain_. __At least it can't get any worse._

So of course it did. The second the thought crossed his mind, Jonathan became aware of…sounds coming from the next room. _Bedroom_ sounds. He tried covering his ears, but that took more determination than his body was willing to provide. _For Christ's sake. _He ground his teeth, though only for a second, as that was agonizing too. It couldn't be later than noon. Didn't they have any sense of decency? All right, so the Joker obviously didn't, but he'd hoped Harley might. Given her breakdown last night, however, that was probably asking for too much.

He sighed and closed his eyes, determined to wait the fiasco out. He was doing a good job of it too, at least until Harley's voice rang out, loud enough to be audible through the building, probably.

"_Ooh Daddy_, faster!"

"What's your rush, little girl?"

Jonathan had always imagined the event that would destroy his will to live would be something major, traumatic, soul-shattering. And it was. Oh, how it was. Though, in a very different way from what he'd pictured. _That's it, there is no God._ "I'm _awake_," he shouted, his head pounding with each syllable.

Harley giggled in response. Joker yelled something that might have been "voyeuristic pervert." Scarecrow had nothing to say for once, apparently stunned into silence. Jonathan went back to closing his eyes and waiting for it to end, wondering if overhearing sex was enough to cause post traumatic stress disorder.

Three and a half hours later, or so he estimated, they were finally through.

Directly afterward, he found Harley standing over him, grinning, face flushed. Fortunately, she'd put clothing on—at least he assumed she hadn't been wearing any before, but he didn't want to think about it too much, or he might start sobbing. Unfortunately, 'clothing' in this case meant a miniskirt even shorter than yesterday's, and a blouse reminiscent of a Catholic schoolgirl's, but much tighter, and see-through. With a black bra underneath. Actually, the sight of her dressed this way might cause sobbing as well. "Hiya, Jonathan!"

"I am not speaking to you," he said, trying to ignore the ache from the bruises along his jaw.

She pouted. "Aw, come on. Everybody does it Jonathan, you don't have to be all ashamed about hearin' it."

_Not everyone does it with sociopathic clowns, _he nearly said, but it wasn't worth it. She'd probably take it as a compliment. "Harley, I don't care how natural it is, my friend having sex is the first item on my 'Things I'd Rather Rupture My Eardrums Than Listen To' list."

"It's because she's a woman, isn't it?" Joker asked as he entered the room, spreading lipstick across his face. "Betcha enjoyed listening to my half of the experience, didn't ya, pervert?"

"For someone who makes a habit of questioning other men's sexuality, you wear a lot of make-up," Jonathan observed.

"Right, because I'm secure enough in my orientation not to be bothered by it." He lowered the lipstick, twisting it back into the tube. "It's too bad that ya can't say the same for yourself."

Jonathan, too annoyed and in pain to come up with a smart remark, was about to counter with the decidedly less biting "Shut up," when Harley giggled and launched herself towards the Joker. 'Launched' here meaning did a back-hand spring toward him, landing about an inch away from knocking him over. "I think make-up looks good on you," she said, running her hands over his face, just lightly enough to avoid wiping any of the paint off.

_That makes one of us,_ Jonathan thought, staring. "You do gymnastics?"

She nodded. "Used to cheerlead in high school. It's actually really helpful in a life of crime. You learn new things every day, huh?"

Harley as a cheerleader. Of course. It never would have occurred to him back when she was a psychiatrist, but with all the bouncing around and the pigtails and the general giddiness, it fit. Even so, it still struck Jonathan as odd, because, well…not to stereotype, but cheerleaders were supposed to be happy, well-adjusted people. They were popular, they had normal friends and relationship and got nominated for Prom Queen. Someone like that should not being running around slashing open pregnant women, and then having loud sex with men in clown make-up. It made no sense.

_How did things go so wrong?_ he wondered, turning his head as the pair began to kiss.

After spending five minutes averting his eyes, Harley apparently remembered that she'd come to bother him for a reason. "Hey Jonathan?"

"Yes?"

"How are you feelin'?"

He sighed. "Like I was just in a car crash. How do you think?"

"Well, if you'd stopped the van when I started shooting—" Joker began, only to be shushed by Harley. Jonathan had never pictured the Joker as able to be shushed. Perhaps all the sex had weakened his argumentative tendencies, but that was doubtful. The clown never seemed to be affected by the things he did, and he couldn't see intercourse succeeding where a fatal beating hadn't.

"Come on, puddin', let's not argue." She walked to Jonathan, dragging Joker behind her by the hand. "Do you think you can walk?"

He held in another sigh, just barely. "I suppose." _If I have painkillers enough to make me higher than a kite._ "Why, what horrific plan have you come up with now?"

"No no, you'll like it. I _promise,_" she added, taking Jonathan's hand in hers. He glanced down at it to find that he needed to change the bandages or infection would become a very real possibility. "Mr. J just came up with, and it's brilliant."

"Well, that goes without saying, Harley-girl," said Joker, humble as always, as she leaned forward and kissed him on the nose.

Jonathan shuddered. "This had better be fast." No matter how many pills he took, he doubted he'd be functioning—or at least functioning well—for long.

"Oh, it will be. We're just robbin' a hardware store."

He raised a brow. "Did you just say a hardware store?"

"Yep." Harley grinned, in a way that showed all of her teeth. He had no idea how she managed to open her mouth that widely, but he was reminded of a shark. "Genius, huh?"

Ah, there went his will to live again. "Why a hardware store?" he asked, wishing he had the energy to massage his temples, his head was throbbing. "And why are we just robbing it? I thought you," he turned to the Joker, "said you'd be killing people every night, not inconveniencing them."

"Oh, we'll kill 'em, don't worry about that. Here, lemme explain."

For some reason, the Joker deemed it necessary to sit on Jonathan's legs before unveiling his plan. Jonathan managed to scream for only a second, and quietly.

"See, the cops won't see this coming. Yesterday, we took out a whole bus, so they'll be watching out for places full of people, and hardware store's gonna have what, six people besides the cashiers if they're real busy? And second, I need to get supplies for tomorrow night."

He knew he'd regret asking, but couldn't stop himself. "What are we going to do tomorrow night?"

Joker smirked. "The same thing we do every night, Jonny—"

"Try to draw out the Bat!" Harley finished. Joker looked a bit miffed about being upstaged, but nodded in agreement.

Jonathan stared. "What?"

"Never mind. The point is, tomorrow, Mistah J's plannin' on getting' chlorine gas into a school's ventilation system, and we need to get the stuff to make a pump."

He was simultaneously horrified and impressed. "Where are you getting chlorine gas?"

"Bleach and ammonia, scaredy cat," said the clown, flashing a crooked smile. "Ya gotta be resourceful."

"You're going to poison yourself mixing it."

Joker shrugged. "What's life without a little risk?" He shifted his weight slightly, making Jonathan wince.

"Elementary school, middle, or high?"

"We haven't decided yet," Harley said, braiding her right pigtail absentmindedly. "I said a high school because teenagers are idiots and we'd be doin' society a favor, but Mistah J thinks a bunch of little kids would have a bigger emotional impact."

It took all Jonathan had not to gape at her. This woman, who just the night before had gone on a self-mutilating fit over hurting one person, was now offhandedly mentioning killing children? When Harley went off the deep end, she didn't waste any time. Depressing.

"The Batman is not going to like this," he muttered, picturing all the broken bones that were in his future when the caped crusader caught them.

"Good," Joker said, crossing his arms. "I haven't seen him in forever, I hope this draws him out. I can't even remember the last time I fought with him. Ya know, uh, I don't think he likes me anymore."

"Aw," said Harley, patting him on the shoulder. "I still love you, puddin'."

"I doubt that killing children will put you in the Bat's good graces," Jonathan muttered. The Joker scowled at him.

"Ya just don't understand our relationship, Jonny. Don't be jealous."

"Whatever." Bracing himself, he tried to sit up, only to be painfully reminded that he couldn't, especially with the Joker on top of him. Harley got up to get him the aspirin, the Joker wandered off. Jonathan didn't know what he was up to and was perfectly fine staying ignorant. He decided not to attempt standing until Harley returned with the painkillers and leaned back, watching the ceiling.

_What's the worst that could happen? _he tried to reassure himself, without much success. _You haven't seen the Batman once since you've broken out, and neither have they, and they've been out longer. It's just a hardware store, and he's right, the police won't think to look around smaller businesses. In, out, over, done. What could go wrong?_

Well, according to Murphy's Law, everything. For example, this was the night the Batman finally showed up.


	37. Love

AN: Extreme apologies about the delay on this one. I had it ready Monday night, but my school's server was down, so I couldn't upload it. Sorry.

The last sort of slow chapter before things get crazy. Who needs to write a math essay (and what math class assigns essays anyway?) when I can write this?

Thanks for the reviews! I love you all.

* * *

About forty-five minutes and triple the safe dosage of painkillers later, Jonathan managed to sit up. He supposed it was a good thing that they weren't planning on actually enacting the plan for another several hours, because he wasn't getting off the couch for a good long while. He sat, trying every so often to move his legs as Harley sat beside him, painting her nails bright red.

"What's the point?" he asked. "You'll have gloves on. Who's going to see it?"

"I'll know it's there, though. And I like havin' it."

Jonathan watched as she raised her hand to the light, brows creasing as she examined her nails. He'd never seen the point in fingernail polish. It seemed like it would be distracting. "Why? It's not as if it serves a purpose."

"Why does everything have to have a purpose with you?" She pouted, carefully painting the nails on her right hand. "Some things are just fun, Jonathan. Like this. If you ever stop biting your nails, I'll paint 'em to show you."

"No thank you." Oh, the Joker would just have a field day with that. He cast about hurriedly for a subject change, before she could decide he needed to experience lipstick or something. "Look Harley, did you mean what you said last night?"

"'Bout what?" she asked, the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she painted.

"About everything being pointless." _Please say no._

"Yep," Harley said offhandedly. It felt to Jonathan like a slap across the face. "You think I should do my toes too?"

"You can't be serious."

"You're right. Paintin' both at once would just look tacky."

"Harley," he said, wishing he could walk over to a wall to bang his head against. "You cannot write off everything you've worked for in life because you've had a rough time lately."

"Why not?" She looked amused, which was somehow worse than when she was angry. Anger, he could deal with. Crazy happiness, that was too close to the Joker for comfort. "You wrote off all of humanity because you had a bad childhood."

"It's not the same," he protested, as she screwed the lid back onto the bottle of polish.

"It is so." Her smile looked every bit as natural and genuine as it had before she lost it, and that made things even more disconcerting. "Look, I don't see why it upsets you so much. I'm fine, okay? Can't you just be happy that I'm happy?"

"No." He sighed, knowing he was losing the battle but unable to give up. "You're the one who told me I was wrong about humanity in the first place, Harley. What am I supposed to do, ignore everything you taught me because you've had a nervous breakdown?"

"Well, yeah." She grinned, then noticed he wasn't smiling back, and frowned. "Jonathan, that wasn't a nervous breakdown, it was a revelation. What I told you back in Arkham wasn't exactly wrong, but it wasn't right either. People may not be inherently bad, but life is inherently pointless, so there's no point in following moral guidelines, right? Just…forget what I told you before, okay? It doesn't really matter."

"Of course it matters!" His headache was coming back despite all the painkillers. "You're my psychiatrist, remember? I mean, not legally, not anymore, but you're the one who said you still wanted to help me. The things you tell me, the things I'm supposed to _model my life around_, happen to matter a hell of a lot. You can't just change them on a whim!"

"Relax, Jonathan." She put a hand on his shoulder, nails still glistening from the wet polish. "I'm really sorry about everything. I know it must be so confusin' to you for me to change my mind like that. But the truth is, I was wrong before and that's all there is to it. What else do you want me to say?"

"That is not all there is to it." _I am going to kill the Joker for breaking her like this. He will die. Sure, our last battle didn't faze him, and I'm about as good at fighting as a little girl, but one way or another, he's going down._ "All right, so if life is pointless, why be my friend? Why have a relationship with the Joker?"

"'Cuz I like you two. That's all there is to it, no greater meaning. You guys make my day brighter, and if I'm goin' to live in this world, I might as well enjoy it, right?" She glanced down at her hands, scrutinizing. "Think I should put on another coat?"

"_Harley_—"

Her hand was over his mouth before he could finish the admonishment. "It's fine, Jonathan. Really, it is. Don't get yourself so worked up, okay? Everything's all right. Just try lookin' on the bright side of life."

"What bright side?" he asked, pulling her hand down. "We're wanted criminals, all of the GPD and the Batman are hunting us, you've totally lost it and are dating the most dangerous man in the city, and I'm brain damaged with barely more mobility than a quadriplegic. So excuse me if I'm having a hard time seeing the bright side, Harley, you may need to point it out."

"Fine, Mr. In-Serious-Need-Of-Antidepressants." She frowned, taking his hands in hers. "Bright sides: You might be on the run, but you're with friends, and you can't be held responsible for breakin' out, because we kidnapped you. You've got pills keepin' your problems in check, and you didn't break any bones in the crash. Oh, and the most dangerous man in the city? Happens to be a _god_ in bed—"

"Things I would rather shoot myself than think about," he protested, trying to pull back. She didn't let go.

"Okay, so maybe the last one was a bit much." Harley giggled. "Still, don't worry so much. Everything's going to be fine, you'll see." He must not have looked reassured, because she leaned in and hugged him. "I love you."

Jonathan went stiff. "What?"

"I love you," she repeated. "What's wrong?"

He leaned out of her embrace. "No, you don't. You love the Joker."

"No, I'm _in _love with the Joker." Harley looked puzzled at his reaction, though he couldn't conceive of why. Confessing love at random struck him as far more bizarre than his behavior. "I love you. You know, platonic love? It's a friend thing?"

"You do not love me."

She got that depressed look, where everything about her, even her pigtails, seemed to be droop. "Of course I do. Why would you think otherwise?" She paused, eyes moving in thought. "Is this because I left? You thought I didn't care, that I'd abandoned you? I'm sorry, that's not what I meant to do."

"What? No." Why was she blaming herself? This couldn't make any less sense. "I mean, it's because of me that you're in this whole mess. Because I did what the Joker wanted, you met him, and became a criminal." _And went mad. _"Everything that's gone wrong is because of me. You can't say you love me after that."

She shook her head, but she was smiling. "Yes, I can. I just did." Before he could argue, Harley's hands were around him again, hugging tighter than ever. It was quite painful, against his bruised ribs, but also comforting. "Like I already said, I'm happy with where my life is now. And even if I wasn't, none of that was your fault. When Mistah J wants something, he gets it, no matter what. So I love you, Mr. Also-In-Serious-Need-Of-Self-Esteem, and don't try to argue."

He had no idea how to response to that, even less than he'd been able to handle overhearing her and the Joker. He wondered if he were obligated to say it back, or if he were even able to say it back. Jonathan could not recall saying those words in his life, not ever, and as cliché as 'I love you' being the hardest thing to say, it was. He could feel that tightening in his throat that usually proceeded something like but not quite an asthma attack, and could only manage an "Er…okay?"

"So…uh…" They turned to find the Joker in the doorway, staring at them. "Is this something I should be jealous about, or what?"

"How long have you been standing there?" Jonathan asked, irritated, as Harley let go.

"Uh…about the time the hugging started. Seriously, though, should I be feeling threatened right now? Because I pride myself on being, uh, forgiving, but if the two of ya are doing things behind my back, I'm gonna kill ya both."

"Aw," said Harley, standing and springing to his side. "Don't be upset, puddin'. It was just a friendship hug. This, though," she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him briefly. "This is love."

Joker leaned into kiss her, and this time it wasn't brief at all.

Jonathan held in a sigh, averted his eyes, and decided to attempt standing again. It hurt like hell, but it wasn't as bad as it had been before. He supposed the painkillers were still taking effect, unsurprising given how many he'd taken. Biting back a moan, he gripped the arm of the couch for support and stood, slowly. Every part of his body seemed to scream in protest, but he ignored it. Or at least tried to. Forty percent success was still a small victory, anyway.

"Jonathan, you stood up!" Harley said, pulling away from the clown, make-up smeared on her face. "Way to go!"

"Thanks," he muttered, wondering how much aspirin was left and how much more he could take without hurting himself. The thoughts were halted, abruptly, when he found a pair of arms around him from behind, painfully tight. Arms, he noted looking down, clad in purple fabric. _Oh joy. _"What are you doing?"

"Friendship hug. Because you're not, ya know, crippled for life or anything. So good job."

"You can let go now," Jonathan said, wishing he was dead and very much in pain.

"When I'm good and ready."

_Goddamn it. _The matter was not helped at all when Harley decided it should be a group hug.

* * *

Another hour and six pills later, he made it down the stairs and into the truck. How, Jonathan wasn't quite sure. His theories ranged from divine intervention to aspirin-induced superpower, but as long as he was mobile, he wasn't going to question it. He sat, huddled painfully in the small space between the passenger seat and the rear window, staring down at his bloodstained shirt. He hadn't had the dexterity or the injury to change after last night, and was mildly disgusted.

The fact that the Joker was quite possibly the world's worst driver did not help things in the least. If he was thrown into the wall one more time, some of those cracked ribs might break. He thought of mentioning this but decided against it, partly because the clown would probably find it funny and partly because they were in the middle of a conversation.

"I'm just sayin', teens have so much potential. Close to gettin' jobs of their own, goin' out into the world. If we gassed a high school, all that would be lost. It'd be devastatin'." How Harley managed to debate while applying lipstick, Jonathan wasn't sure, but it was impressive.

"True. But little children are pure, not yet, uh, desensitized by how horrible Gotham really is. And they haven't experienced as much, so it'd be more tragic to lose 'em."

He listened to them carry on for a bit before zoning it out. Poisoning a group of people, regardless of age, didn't much interest him unless it was with fear toxin, or at least something he could observe the effects of. The kids might be quite horrified as they were dying, but it wasn't as if he'd be inside to see it, so he didn't really care.

Arms braced against the rear wall and passenger seat to keep from falling over, Jonathan turned his attention out the back windshield and watched the buildings fly by. There was nothing of interest, really, skyscraper, skyscraper, stunned pedestrian they'd almost hit, skyscraper, traffic swerving to avoid them, that sort of thing. That is, until a car appeared behind them, far back on the road but gaining speed.

Well, perhaps car wasn't the best word. Tank, more like it. A big black tank, barreling after them. It was different than the one Jonathan had seen on the news—it would have to be, given that the Joker had destroyed the first one—but it could only be what Gotham residents called the Batmobile.

And it was gaining. _Shit._ "G-guys? I think there's something you should see."


	38. Mano A Mano

AN: Sorry about the delay on that last chapter, I had an essay to write, a test to study for, and a screening of _Pan's Labyrinth _to attend. After which I met Doug Jones, and got his autograph, and a hug…it was pretty much the coolest thing ever. Anyway, there may be a delay on the next chapter as well, as over the weekend I have to revise an essay, and write an eight page one and do illustrations for it. Sorry.

* * *

"Guys?" he repeated, unheard over their argument. It had moved into debating whether or not young children were innocent, or freeloaders with no sense of empathy. And the Batmobile was still approaching.

"Mommy and Daddy are talking right now, Jonny."

_We're fucked. We are so fucked. _"Excuse me, _Daddy, _but I think you might want to see who's behind us." How he managed to be sarcastic, much less form coherent sentences, while seconds away from a panic attack, he wasn't sure. Jonathan sat, reduced to biting his knuckles now that he had no nails left to speak of, as Joker glanced into the rearview mirror.

"Well, _finally._" He sounded like a kid on Christmas morning, his shoulders shaking a little as he rolled down the window and waved. "Hey Bats, where ya been all my life?"

The Batmobile accelerated in response.

_Goddamn it, _Jonathan thought, forced to stop mutilating himself as the truck lurched forward and he had to grab onto the wall for balance. _We're dead._ "How did he find us?"

"They do say he's the world's greatest detective," Harley offered, her voice trembling. He was glad to see at least she was concerned about their predicament, in sharp contrast to her lover, who was still hanging out the window, driving one handed. The Joker was singing, something Jonathan didn't know, completely unconcerned about the approaching harbinger of their doom.

"Mistah J?" Harley asked, anxiously, as they turned sharply enough to make the truck skid. "Uh, what are we gonna do about—"

"'Cause the power you're supplyin', it's electrifyin'!"

"We're going to die," Jonathan moaned, lightly banging his head against the wall. _Of all the ways to go. _He'd prefer to die of old age, in his sleep, or barring that, in battle, and gloriously supplying fear. At the very least something slightly more dignified than having his head go through the rear windshield because this clown couldn't be bothered to care. "We're going to—"

"Ya better shape up, 'cause I need a man, and my heart is set on you—"

"Puddin'?"

The Batmobile was closer now, so close Jonathan could almost make out the Bat driving through the tinted windshield. He'd never know his heart could beat this fast without giving out. _We're dead we're dead we're dead._

"Ya better shape up, ya better understand, to my heart I must be true—"

"_Mistah J!_" she half-screamed. The vehicles were almost touching.

"Fine." He pulled himself back in, sighing. "Spoilsport. I'll tell ya what we're going do about it, Harley-girl. Get the bazooka."

"We have a bazooka?" Jonathan asked, stunned, as the truck put out another burst of speed, widening the gap. Harley unfastened her seatbelt and disappeared from view briefly, struggling with something under the seat for a moment. She reemerged holding a—

"What is that?" he asked, almost too confused to be frightened. It wasn't quite a bazooka. It was big enough to be one, that was certain, but it didn't look like any rocket launcher he'd ever seen before.

"It's a shoulder-mounted guided missile," Harley said proudly, hoisting it onto her own shoulder. "Cool, huh?"

He stared. "Where did you _find _that?"

"That's not important," the Joker said, jerking the wheel into another turn that nearly flipped them. "Okay, Harl, aim for his tires."

She rolled down the window as the Batmobile turned the corner and leaned out. The weight of the launcher nearly knocked her out of the truck; Jonathan leaned forward and grabbed her at the last moment. The Joker, as always, was either uncaring or completely oblivious, his driving making the truck weave violently side to side, as his companions hung on for dear life.

"Harley, why aren't ya shooting?"

"He's swervin' his car, I can't get a good shot!"

The Joker muttered something about good help being hard to find, producing a revolver from one of his own pockets, and firing indiscriminately out his own window at the stunned bystanders on the street. He didn't even bother to open the window first, Jonathan noted, as he watched the civilians dive for cover. "There. Gotta shot now?"

A glance behind them confirmed that the Batmobile had stopped swerving. The Batman was apparently unwilling to risk getting anyone hurt. Which, as far as Jonathan was concerned, made no sense at all, Harley firing was sure to make the tank flip, probably onto the sidewalk and _on top of _those citizens the Bat was so worried about protecting. What was it the Joker had said in the bar that night? Evil will always triumph, because good is dumb? Sounded about right.

Harley fired. Jonathan remembered hearing once that shoulder-mounted weapons were supposed to reduce recoil, but the effect was still enough to send him slamming against the passenger seat, painfully hard. It felt as if the cuts from last night had reopened.

It did flip, albeit not on to the sidewalk, as it was stopped by a van parked against the side of the road. The impact totaled the van, though he couldn't be sure about the Batmobile, as it was flipped over.

Joker slammed on the brakes, suddenly, the truck screeching to a halt and sending Harley flying into the window frame. "Out. Now."

"Out?" Jonathan repeated, bewildered. _Shouldn't this be the part where we drive like hell?_ In response, the clown grabbed hold of his shoulders and pulled him over the seats. Yes, those cuts had definitely reopened.

"C'mon."

Harley staggered out after them, the three running down the street and around a corner. It was the industrial part of the city, Jonathan noted, from what he could glimpse in the rush, the road they were on lined with factory buildings. Joker pointed to one of them, and Harley ran forward, struggling with the door. "It's locked!"

She barely had time to step out of the way before the Joker's gun was firing, five or six shots into the lock above the handle. "Now it's not." He pulled the door open, beckoning them in. "Go."

"What about you, puddin'?"

"I'll be back in a minute." His eyes were sparkling with excitement, which could only be a sign that something terrible was about to happen. "First I wanna say hello to Bats _mano-a-mano._"

"But Mistah J—"

He shoved her inside, slamming the door.

Jonathan took in their surroundings as Harley stood at his side, hyperventilating. He couldn't tell what the plant they were in manufactured, but it looked as if it hadn't been in use for a good long while anyway. It was an open room, mostly, rusted machinery here and there with narrow catwalks around some of it. There was another room to the side, which he'd started toward when Harley grabbed hold of his wrist.

"Jonathan, we've gotta go help him!"

He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, but only just. "He can take care of himself, Harley. He'll just shoot us if we try and assist."

"How can you handle this?" she asked, free hand clutching her face, smearing the makeup and nearly knocking her hood off. "Batman could be killing him right now—"

"Batman doesn't kill. At least, not directly."

"Well, he could be torturing—"

"Harley." He tried and failed to pry her hand loose. "This is what is happening right now, all right? And I know, because it always happens. The Batman's gotten out of the wreckage, and he's probably spotted the Joker because your man isn't exactly subtle."

"Uh-uh?" she asked, trembling.

"So they're having a stand-off. Batman will be trying to get him to 'stop this madness and turn himself in' or something to that effect. He always does that. Probably going on about 'how could you kill those innocent people' too, or something. And the Joker is laughing at whatever he says and I don't know, hitting on him or something idiotic. Eventually they're going to fight, but the Joker will get back here because he'd never be captured so easily. Okay?"

She still looked seconds from a heart attack. "But how can you be sure?"

He sighed. "I _can't. _But there's no point in standing there having a fit about it is there?" Catching sight of her eyes, glistening with soon-to-be shed tears, he hurriedly added, "Okay, why don't we look around? See if there's anything that can be used as weapons when he does come back?"

"'Kay," she said softly, letting go of his wrist and wandering off into the other room. She was moving slowly, though he couldn't tell if it was from concern overriding her ability to move or injuries sustained when she'd been hanging out the window.

He headed in the opposite direction, getting about five steps in before he heard the explosion.

It seemed to rattle the ground itself, the noise reverberating through him. Harley was back at his side, so quickly he'd never seen her coming. "That's one of Mistah J's grenades," she said, her voice barely audible over the sudden ringing in his ears.

"He has _grenades_?"

"Well, yeah. He's resourceful."

"So they've moved into the fighting portion," he muttered. Off Harley's terrified look, he added, "Oh, calm down. If he's able to set off grenades, I'd say that's a sign he has the upper hand, wouldn't you?"

"Let's hope." She looked close to tears again.

_Oh, for Christ's sake. _Of all the things to worry about, she chose the Joker? He was better off than they were, facing the Bat or not, at least he was armed. Harley didn't have any weapons, none that he could see, anyway, and the suit was too tight to conceal much under. He had nothing, save for the can of Mace that was still in his pocket from last night.

_Better than nothing, I guess, _he thought, pulling it from his pocket. Aiming the can toward the floor, away from them, he sprayed once, gently, to test it. It didn't spray so much as fizz, the trigger barely moving, as if rusted. It must have been an older bottle. He tried it twice more, and the last time it actually sprayed.

_Not that that would do much good anyway, _he thought hopelessly. Rumor had it the Bat's cowl had retractable lens in the eyes. Jonathan couldn't imagine what purpose that could serve, besides being horrifying, but if it was true, then they were completely helpless.

The door flung open and the Joker rushed in. There was rubble all over him, his make-up tinged gray with debris, and he was absentmindedly snuffing out flames on one of his sleeves. Harley ran to his side. "Puddin', are you—"

"I'm _fine. _Look, Batman won't be down for long, so I need a plan and I need it now. Any weapons in here?"

Harley nodded, smiling so widely it looked almost painful. Apparently, the Joker's safety was cause enough for rejoicing despite the fact that they were still in imminent danger. "The next room's all full of bladey stuff. Here, I'll show you."

She dragged him to the doorway. The Joker stood, silent, contemplating. His tongue pushed against the scars on the inside of his mouth as he thought. A minute or so passed, though it felt like forever. "Yeah," he said, finally. "Yeah, this would work, if we had five minutes."

"We don't," Jonathan said flatly. _Shit._

"We could…if we had a distraction." The Joker's hands were on him, suddenly, pressing a knife handle into his bandaged hand. "Jonathan. Can ya give us five minutes?"

He stared at the knife, and then at the Joker, heart hammering. "Can I at least have the gun?"

"All outta bullets. Ya think ya can do it?"

Jonathan stood, considering it. On one hand, getting captured would mean the Joker went back to Arkham, and this time they'd probably drug him into comatose oblivion. That would mean he and Harley would be separated. She'd have a chance at rehabilitation, maybe be able to get away from his influence and get her life back. God, it was tempting…

But on the other hand, to be captured, that would mean the Batman would get a hold of her. And while the Bat didn't kill, Jonathan had the brain damage as a reminder that he could still hurt. He was not willing to risk Harley being injured, chance of getting her mind back together or not.

"Fine," he said, swallowing hard. His legs felt as if they were about to give out. "I'll do it."

Harley whimpered beside them. "But Jonathan—"

"I'll be fine," he said, trying to act calm. "Don't worry about me, Harley."

"Thanks, kid." The Joker's hand was on him again, this time patting his shoulder. He smelled like gunpowder.

"Be careful!" Harley was hugging him suddenly, having grabbed him with nearly enough force to knock him over. "Don't die. Please."

"I won't." He tried to hug back, but she was holding too tightly. "I'll be fine." She still didn't let go. "I…love you?" he tried, stunned with himself. But it didn't feel completely wrong to say. "I love you," he repeated.

She stiffened in surprise, then smiled. "Jonathan, I love you too—" and the Joker had hold of her, dragging her into the next room.

"Break a leg!" he called, cheerful as always, and then they were out of sight, leaving Jonathan with only the knife and the Mace, and about a minute to come up with a plan.


	39. Confrontation

AN: Scarecrow's line about Arkham and mental health is based on one of Batman's lines in _Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth. _You know, I have no idea how I can quote all these comics that I don't own and have only skimmed through. My friend likes to joke that I have a photographic memory, I'm starting to think he's right.

The story's almost through. I believe this will be the second to last chapter, unless the next one turns out to be so long I have to divide it in half. There will be a sequel however, probably as long if not longer than this story. Anyway, tomorrow I have to write two essays (ones I should have been working on today but put off) so I don't know if I'll be able to update then. I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can, and the sequel should be up in the same week.

Thanks for the reviews!

_

* * *

__Well, this is just wonderful. _Jonathan looked around, trying to ignore his sense of self-preservation, which was alternating between begging him to run and shouting 'You're fucking dead.'_I've got about two minutes at most before Batman arrives, two weapons that will only work in close combat, and the fighting skills of…of something that doesn't fight well._

Oh joy. Even his ability to make mental quips had deserted him. If that wasn't a sure sign he was about to die, he didn't know what was. He let Scarecrow take over, whom he figured would have some form of a plan, even if the plan only amounted to 'kick him in the shins.'

Scarecrow took in his surroundings, casting about for anything that could be useful. The machinery was all bolted to the floor, though he doubted he would be able to move it anyway. He had no idea what any of it did, and there wasn't exactly time to run around turning things on and experimenting. He wasn't sure if this place still had electricity, anyway.

One step of stairs, he noted, that led up to a catwalk, had been built directly over the doors they'd come in through. Scarecrow didn't see any other entrances—the room didn't even have windows—so he supposed his best bet was to get on the stairs and pray that the Bat came through those doors, then throw something heavy and hope it hit him in the head. Not the best plan, but all he could come up with on short notice and no fear toxin. It wasn't any more likely to get him killed that anything else he could think of, at least.

He ran halfway up the stairs, and stood there, shivering. From cold, Scarecrow assured himself, because he wasn't afraid. He refused to let himself be afraid of some man, clearly mentally ill, who dressed up like an animal and ran around fighting crime. Besides, how much could the Batman possibly scare him, now that he'd Frenched the Joker and lived to tell about it?

The doors flung open and the Batman came in. His fists were clenched, probably holding Batarangs or something equally awful.

_Fuck. _Scarecrow flinched. Apparently he could scare him quite a lot.

It occurred to him that on the way up the stairs, he'd neglected the part of the plan that involved finding something heavy to throw. All he had was the knife and the aerosol can, and he felt it unwise to toss either of his weapons, especially since they'd do no good, unless the blade of the knife magically happened to penetrate the armor where it separated from head to neck. He wasn't sure what the odds of that happening were, but he highly doubted they would be in his favor.

At his wits' end, Scarecrow did the only thing he could think of; launched himself over the railing and landed on top of the Bat. It seemed a perfectly good idea in the seconds before he jumped, when the Batman had started to turn around and he knew he was out of options anyway, but once he'd started sailing through the air, he realized it wasn't so wise after all.

_Well, no use getting upset about it now, _he decided, as the both of them went crashing to the ground. At least he'd had the element of surprise, and judging from the clattering sound, Batman had dropped his weapons. Not that he wasn't surely carrying dozens more, but there was no point in being negative. He scrambled on top of the Bat, ignoring the pain from the landing, and held out the Mace.

Scarecrow grinned, to near Joker-wideness, upon seeing Batman's eyes widen from behind the mask. His legs were straddled over the vigilante, pinning his arms to his sides. Not that he thought that would stop the Bat from getting free, but he didn't seem to be trying to risk it, with the pepper spray an inch from his eye. _Oh, this is too good. _Things were finally in his favor, for once. Taking down his nemesis in a matter of seconds without suffering severe injury. It was like Christmas in July.

It was too bad, though, he reflected, that he couldn't come up with anything clever to say before blasting the Batman. He'd never failed to have something snarky prepared for these fights, but all he could come up with were puns about toxin or fear, which hardly were of use here. Oh well. Better to spray him silently than to try and come up with something on the spot that would make him sound stupid. Batman, he noticed, had closed his eyes. He smirked. It wouldn't make a difference, the spray was still a severe skin irritant and would burn like hell if inhaled. "You know what they say," he offered, "blind as a bat." Not his best, but it would suffice. He pressed down.

Nothing happened.

Scarecrow stared. Tried it again.

Still nothing. He felt like a child who'd awakened Easter morning to find no eggs and a dead rabbit on the porch. He was aware that the Batman's eyes were opening and pressed down a third time.

It did that fizzing thing again. Well, that would hardly be helpful, unless he planned to hold Batman's eyes open and drag the stuff across—

"Give me that." With a sigh of what sounded like annoyance, the Bat reached up and pulled the can out of his hand, throwing it off to a corner of the room.

_Oh hell, _Scarecrow thought, heart sinking. Vaguely he wondered if Batman made himself sound patronizing on purpose, or if he was just that annoying all the time. Pity the poor souls that had to deal with the man on a day to day basis. If he spent time with people, that was.

He bolted up, turning to run. He got about half a stride in before a hand closed around his ankle, and he came crashing back to the floor. The Batman was on top of him before he could even think about trying to crawl away, gloved fingers digging into his shoulders. "Crane. Where's the Joker?"

Scarecrow couldn't tell if he was trying to be intimidating, or just asking. With a voice like that, he could make 'Happy Birthday' sound like a death threat. "Well, I haven't the slightest idea," he said, hoping he came off as nonchalant rather than terrified. "If you can't keep track of your lover, I fail to see how that's my—"

The grip on his shoulders tightened, moving far beyond discomfort to somewhere between pain and agony. "Do not play games with me, Crane." The eyes behind the mask were glaring, boring into his own. In the darkness they looked almost black, transforming the Batman from more than a man, something closer to a demon. Like that night in Arkham when he'd been robbed of his sanity. He struggled not to shudder, remembering it.

"Scarecrow," he managed, averting his gaze.

"What?"

"It's Scarecrow. At least, that's what I suggest calling me if you want to get any answers." He tried moving his hand closer to his pocket, to the knife the Joker had given him. The Bat didn't notice, so far focused on his words. If he could just keep it up long enough to grab the handle, he'd have a chance. Not a good chance, but something, anyway.

"Fine. Scarecrow. Where is he?" The hands on his shoulders remained tight as ever, but he was able to move, hand sliding into his pocket, grasping the weapon there.

"No idea, sorry."

If there was one thing more horrifying than an enraged Batman, it was an enraged Batman whose time was being wasted. He didn't kill, but he looked as if Scarecrow was severely tempting that rule. "Crane—"

"I thought we agreed it was Scarecrow," he said, trying to figure out the angle at which he needed to stab the Bat to cause maximum damage. Too bad he couldn't reach any truly harmful angles from his position on the floor. _Great._

"Enough." His tone was dark, dark enough to make Scarecrow shut up . "I don't have time for this. Where is the Joker?"

"Fine," he said, sounding very much to his own ears like a petulant child. "I'll tell you. Just…let me up first, all right? I can hardly breathe."

The Batman sighed, but loosened his grip, still holding on lightly as Crane sat up. Three quarters of the way through, he pulled the knife from his pocket, thrusting his arm towards the space between the rib plates of the armor—

Only to have the Batman grab his wrist, painfully tight, before he could make contact. "I'm not stupid, you know," he said, tightening his grip enough to make Scarecrow cry out and drop the weapon.

"That's debatable," he hissed, and did the only other thing he could think of; spat in Batman's face. His eyes hit, the Bat flinched back, Scarecrow taking advantage of his surprise and pulling free. He scrambled himself to his feet, running across the room and up the first flight of stairs he came to.

_Not the best plan, _he reflected, as he heard the Batman following behind. _Narrow catwalk, Batman, only one way down and he's between me and it, leaves a lot to be desired, actually. _Oh well. Joker had said they only needed five minutes to make it work, and surely those minutes were almost up by now. Having reached the top of the stairs, he turned to find a very annoyed Batman approaching. _Damn it._

"You're only making this harder on yourself. I don't want to hurt you."

"Oh, because being sent back to Arkham is such a lovely prospect," Scarecrow retorted, backing up. "I'd take my chances in a fight against you before I'd go there willingly." It had to have been five minutes by now. Where were they?

"It's where you belong." He'd reached the top of the stairs by now. Scarecrow was still backing away, but the space between his body and the wall wasn't that large anymore. "You need help."

He laughed. "Right, because Arkham is _so_ conducive to mental health. Maybe you haven't noticed, but not even the doctors there can stay sane." He felt himself back into the wall and tried not to shudder. "Though in my case, it was less natural madness and more you poisoning me. Thanks so much, by the way."

"You'd been torturing mental patients for thrills."

"And you dress like a bat and fight crime," Scarecrow said, scornful. "But I bet you call yourself sane, don't you?"

"Speaking of doctors," Batman said, ignoring him and now halfway across the catwalk, "your friend Dr. Quinzel. She's with the Joker, isn't she? Don't you care about her safety? You must realize she's in danger as long as she's around him."

He smirked. "I'm sorry, was that supposed to guilt me into giving his location up? Trying to use reverse psychology on a psychiatrist isn't the best idea, I'd say." The Bat didn't respond, so he continued. "I doubt she'd be any safer around you than him."

"I don't hurt people unless I have to."

He arched a brow. "You _had _to poison me? I hadn't already been subdued?" The space between them was closed, Batman less than a foot from him. He tried not to shake. _Damn it._ "Look, I'm not telling you where they are, no matter what you do to me, so you'd be better off tracking them yourself."

"You're going to tell me, one way or another."

Where _were _they? Maybe panic was throwing his sense of time off, but there was no way it had been less than five minutes. Whatever the plan was, they should be rushing out and enacting it, complete with lewd comments and/or musical numbers, courtesy of the Joker. And when the clown said things, he meant them. If he said five, it would be five, regardless of whether what they were doing in there was through or not. So what was going on?

Unless…_oh, shit. _The butterflies in his stomach seemed to have turned to lead. Unless whatever trap they'd set involved luring the Batman into that room; unless they needed the element of surprise. At which point it didn't matter if they were finished, they wouldn't be coming to the rescue, just waiting for either him to lead the Bat in or the Bat to finish with him and go in alone. Lovely. And this whole mess seemed to have started so well.

He was not too proud to try and duck under the Batman's arms to escape, like a child running away from an angry parent. Unfortunately, small as he was, he wasn't _that_ short, and was slammed back into the wall for his troubles.

"I don't want to fight you," the Batman repeated. "Just tell me where they are."

Scarecrow reacted by kicking him in the side of the knee, a place he knew to be vulnerable that had the advantage of being exposed by the separated armor plates. It didn't quite knock Batman over, like he'd been hoping; that would have been too good to be true, and certainly too good to have happened to him. He did stagger, however, giving Scarecrow just enough space to push past him, make a run for it. _Now if I can only get in there, _he thought, eyes focused on the door across the room. _Just get in there and _not _get killed by whatever they've rigged up, things will be fi—_

He felt a pair of hands grab his ankles, knocking him off of his feet, sending him crashing to the ground. He felt blood in his mouth as his face hit against the floor, his entire body burning from impact. Hands grabbed his shoulders, flipping him over. He tried the spitting trick again, but the Batman had the sense to close his eyes this time, wiping the saliva and blood from his face with a gloved hand and then grabbing Scarecrow again. Scarecrow responded by kicking him in the crotch, which didn't seem to cause much pain, his groin being as armored as the rest of him, but at least knocked him off enough for Scarecrow to try getting away again.

He hadn't even managed to completely stand up when the Bat was on him once more, and too terrified to come up with a method of attack, Scarecrow resorted to kicking and punching wildly, making contact with everything from Batman to the safety rails, ignoring the wounds reopening on his hands. Batman, though he seemed to be trying more than anything just to get a hold of him, wasn't above throwing the occasional punch himself, which only made Scarecrow strike with renewed fervor.

Their struggling brought the pair closer and closer to the head of the stairs, something Scarecrow didn't realize until he leaned back to kick and found himself falling. He fell the Batman's hand graze his leg, but it was too little, too late, and the vigilante couldn't grab onto him before he was careening backward, falling nearly head over heels down the stairs.

He scrambled for the railing, trying to grab hold to no avail, and halfway down felt one of his legs twist under him, the wrong way, the pain over the next few seconds growing and growing along with the tension until it was almost blinding, and SNAP.

He heard himself screaming, but just barely, he was nearly deaf and now totally blind from the agony, the ungodly pain growing even as he reached the bottom of the stairs and lay collapsed there, unable to move, unable to escape.

He could hear the Batman standing over him, feel the hand on his shoulder, the voice asking if what was wrong, but it seemed distant, far off. He recalled the Joker's parting words to him, 'break a leg,' and managed to see the irony of the situation, even through the pain. He stopped screaming long enough to laugh, briefly, weakly, and then everything went dark.


	40. Welcome Back

AN: Well, this is it. I'm starting on the sequel tomorrow, and should have it up either then or Wednesday, so keep a look out!

It's been an amazing journey, and I really never expected to get to forty chapters, given my chronic inability to finish things I write. Thanks to all of my reviewers for providing support and feedback, as well as my real life friends, for doing the same and forcing me to read the first reviews I was too afraid to click on. You all rock.

* * *

It wasn't like falling asleep; it was more as if a piece of Jonathan's memory had gone missing, like a segment cut out of a cassette tape. One minute he was screaming in agony, the Batman hovering over him, and the next he was lying back on a bed, bright fluorescent light overhead and the pain blissfully gone. He didn't bother to wonder how for a few minutes. Why question miracles? Besides, he realized after a moment's reflection, he didn't have to question it. He knew how.

He was back at Arkham.

The familiar scent of disinfectant gave it away, even before the visuals did. Though that wasn't too surprising, given that his glasses were off. Jonathan managed to raise his head. It wasn't painful, just tiring. His broken leg was lifted before him, casted, in traction. He couldn't feel it. He imagined it was the morphine; that would explain the drowsiness. He knew he should be concerned, be it about his injuries or more importantly, how Harley was at the moment, and he felt vaguely guilty about his nonchalance, but he just couldn't feel it. Maybe it was the drugs, or exhaustion from his injuries and life on the run. Whatever it was, no issue seemed pressing enough to hold his interest at the moment, so he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

* * *

Again, it wasn't so much like sleep as it was a black out. He supposed it was an effect of the morphine, or whatever else they had him on.

Coming to a second time, Jonathan felt a little more put together and took to examining his surroundings. From what he could make out, he was in the infirmary, which seemed to be otherwise unoccupied, besides a nurse on the opposite end of the room, flipping through a magazine. He couldn't tell what time of day it was, as he wasn't facing the windows.

Jonathan tried to sit up and came to the rather annoying realization that he was strapped to the bed. A standard precaution, he supposed, for a patient with a habit of breaking out, but he saw no sense in immobilizing his arms when one leg was in traction. How far could he possibly get in that state?

At least they seemed to have bandaged his hands again. And most of his body, from what he could feel. If it weren't for the straps, it would be comfortable. That, and the worry about Harley that seemed urgent now. The drugs must be wearing off.

The nurse, alerted by his movements, he guessed, stood and made her way toward him. Jonathan noted, in the few steps before she got too close for him to see clearly, that it was the same nurse who'd drugged him the night Joker had broken his arm. He vaguely recalled that she'd worked here when he was administrator, though her name escaped him.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Why am I strapped to the bed?" he asked, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. Ridiculous as the situation was, alienating the one person he could question about his friend didn't seem wise. "It's not as if I'm going anywhere."

She shrugged, or at least he assumed she did. It was hard to make out the finer points of movement. He was starting to feel an ache over his body, a sure sign that the morphine was weakening. Jonathan tried not to show signs of it. The last thing he wanted was to be drugged before he could find anything out.

"Standard procedure with escapees," she said. "I'm sorry." Though she didn't sound sorry, her tone was more disapproving. Like a disappointed schoolteacher. "I have to say I can't understand why you'd break out in the first place. What's so appealing about living in the streets, Doctor?"

"I was kidnapped," he said, defensive. "If the Joker wanted to take you somewhere, would you say no?"

"I'd run for my life," she said, shaking her head.

"Well then, you'd end up dead instead of just injured," he pointed out, wondering why he'd answered her in the first place. As if he cared what some nurse thought about his reasoning. Besides, the pain was worsening, fast. There was no use in pointless banter. "Speaking of which, did the Batman have Dr. Quinzel and the Joker when he brought me in?"

"Batman didn't bring you in," she said, sounding surprised. "Your friends did."

"What?"

"They left you at the front gates," she explained, pulling something from her pocket. From the sound, it seemed to be a piece of paper. "The guards couldn't get near them. The Joker was brandishing some sort of…I think they called it a makeshift chainsaw, or a battering ram? Or both. And they left this with you."

She unfolded the paper and held it to Jonathan's face.

"I can't read it," he said, after a moment's pause.

"Oh," she said, flustered. "Of course you can't. I'm sorry, dear, I'll get your glasses." She crossed the room back to the desk, shoes squeaking against the floor, and returned a moment later, sliding the frames onto his face.

The note was in Harley's handwriting, which he realized he'd never actually seen until now. She had thin, elegant penmanship that leaned backwards, managing to look graceful despite the fact that the note was written in what appeared to be strawberry-scented magic marker. Somehow, it didn't surprise him.

_Dear Jonathan,_

_I'm really sorry about leaving you like this, and please don't think it's because I don't care. If we could, we'd keep you with us, but Mr. J says that you're too injured for us to treat you, and I'm sorry to say I think he's right. I suggested we hold up a hospital, make them bandage you up and then go on our way, but the Batman didn't lose that much blood and he'll be after us again soon, and if we wait too long to get you help the bones might not set right. _

_Mr. J wants you to know that he saw the whole fight and he's glad to see you've learned to lighten up. I didn't see all of it—spent a lot of time cowering with my eyes closed—but you're one of the bravest people I've ever met, and I'm proud to have a friend like you. Please don't feel that we're abandoning you. I love, Jonathan, and so does Mr. J, even if he isn't sure how to express it. This isn't goodbye, it's more of a see you later. I will see you again, and I'd write more, except Mr. J's about to turn off the paved roads and it's hard enough making this legible as it is._

Underneath that was scrawled a line of crude _XOXOXOXOs, _and he couldn't tell if the hand was the Joker's or Harley's, attempting to write once the truck had gone off the road. Neither had signed the letter, though there were two lipstick stains against the paper, one black, one red.

"So they got away," he said, mostly to himself. "Good for them."

The nurse clucked her tongue in disapproval, folding the letter back up. "Did you have any other questions, Doctor?"

She still called him doctor, he noted. Well, that raised his level of respect for her about a hundredfold. "Could I be drugged again, please?" he asked, giving over to the pain now that Harley's safety was assured.

"Yes, dear."

The needle burned as it went in, the morphine cold and horribly unpleasant in the seconds he felt it race through his veins, but after those seconds it went mercifully black.

* * *

When he next awoke it was to find Isley and Nigma sitting at the foot of his bed, talking in low tones. Tetch was beside them, drawing on Jonathan's cast what appeared to be the Mad Hatter's tea party, from what he could make out.

Well, that meant it was daytime by now. Hopefully the night had passed without Harley being caught. He sat up, as much as he could with the restraints still in place, drawing the attention of his companions.

"Jonathan!" Isley's arms were around him at once, knocking Tetch out of the way as she dove toward him. Jonathan noted that being hugged while strapped to a bed felt rather awkward.

"Where do you come from and where are you going?" Tetch asked, sitting back up. Jonathan supposed it was his form of a greeting.

"Going nowhere, currently," he said, tilting his head toward the straps.

"We've missed you," Nigma said, briefly placing his hand over Jonathan's. "How are things in the outside world?"

He tried to shrug, then realized shrugging did not work when tied down, especially with a super villainess on top of him. "I didn't see much of it, honestly. We spent most of our time either attacking things or hiding from the Batman."

"We heard you fought him," Nigma said, sitting back down. Isley still hadn't moved. The pressure from her arms was almost painful, but not quite.

"Tried to, anyway. You can see how well that turned out."

"If you weren't seriously injured already, Jonathan," Isley said, finally leaning back. "I'd smack you again. What were you thinking, fighting him? Do you realize what a small person you are?"

"Am I?" he asked drily. "I hadn't noticed."

"Don't interrupt. He could throw you around like a rag doll if he wanted, stupid."

"Keep your temper," Tetch muttered, earning a light slap across the face for it.

"I didn't plan to fight him," Jonathan protested. "It just…happened. Besides, I had to do something. It's not as if I was going to leave Harley vulnerable."

Isley sighed, looked as if she were struggling not to roll her eyes, and ruffled his hair before moving back to the foot of the bed. She took Nigma's hand in hers as she did so, Jonathan noticed, trying not to smirk. He wondered when they'd admitted their feelings for each other. That was the bad thing about breaking out; he always missed the most interesting developments. "Look, Jonathan," Isley was saying, "it's really sweet of you, wanting to protect your friend, but promise me you won't do it again unless you have fear gas."

"But I—"

"_Promise._" He wondered if all redheads had the gift of becoming terrifying when the mood struck them, or if it was just her.

"Fine."

They spent the next half hour or so discussing the events after the breakout, both in the city and at Arkham, until visiting time was over and his friends were escorted out of the room, and Jonathan drugged again.

* * *

This time he awoke to find the Commissioner Gordon standing over him.

Well, that was unexpected. Were it not for the morphine, he expected he'd be absolutely bewildered. As things were, the situation was only mildly off-putting. "Can I help you?"

"Crane." He paused, looking unsure. Whether it was about what to say next, or the situation in general, Jonathan didn't know. "What do you know about the Joker's plans?"

He blinked. Was Gordon honestly expecting to get any answers of value from this conversation? He could see what Harley had meant about the futility of life reflected in this man, a cop trying to save the cesspool that was Gotham from itself, so desperate he'd looked to man dressed in a bat costume for help. The pointlessness of it all didn't strike him as funny, however. He wasn't the type to feel much sympathy, but in a way it was sad.

"The Joker doesn't make plans," he said. "Or, if he does, he never shared them with me."

"Nothing?" Gordon persisted, and though his voice stayed strong the eyes behind his glasses looked defeated, drained.

"All I know is what you know. He wants proof that Harvey Dent is alive and he will kill without discrimination until he gets it. If he's right, Commissioner, I'd suggest you give into his demands, spare a lot of lives."

The Commissioner glanced down, looking as if he was trying not to sigh. His composure slipped for a second, making him look less like the fearless leader of the GPD and more like a tired, aging man, pulled to the limit by a psychotic clown's sick games. And really, it was sad. Jonathan had nothing against the man personally, they'd have gotten along fine if it weren't for Gordon's attempts to keep him from poisoning people.

"He was planning to kill a school with chloride gas," Jonathan said, the words out of his mouth before he realized he was speaking. "At least, last we spoke. The Batman interrupted him on his way to get the necessary supplies, though, so I don't know if he'll still try it." He stopped, blinking, surprised at himself. _Did I just cooperate with the law? _Lovely. Harley would be happy to know that some of her therapy had taken effect. Or not, given her current state of mind.

Gordon looked as taken aback as he felt. "What school?"

"Hadn't decided. He was leaning towards an elementary, I think." He could not fathom why he was still talking. Was this sympathy? From him, of all people? Or maybe just a side effect of the drugs, that he could wrap his mind around.

The Commissioner nodded, composed once more. "Where are they staying?"

Ah, now _there _was the line he wouldn't cross, sympathy or not. Not if it meant Harley could be captured. "They'll have moved by now."

"Well, where were they staying, then?"

He gave his best attempt at a shrug.

"Crane—"

"I'm not betraying Harley, sorry."

Gordon sighed, his expression a mixture of exasperation, disappointment, and something that might have been pity. "You're a psychiatrist. Don't you think it's better that your friend be treated than left cohabitating with a terrorist?"

"Yes," he said, honestly.

"Well then—"

"Do you think your Bat friend is mentally stable?" he asked, trying to keep the scorn from his voice. "How can you, really? But you let him protect the streets for you, though I'm sure deep down you think he'd be better off in a place like this. That's how things are. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."

Gordon's expression remained the same, but he nodded, resigned. "Well then, there's no point in carrying on this discussion. Thank you." He turned, headed toward the door, keeping the slump out of his shoulders despite his air of defeat, but stopped before stepping out. "Good luck." And then he disappeared into the hallway, out of sight.

_Police commissioners and super villains feeling sympathy for each other, _Jonathan thought wryly, laying back down. _What has this world come to?_

He was a much a prisoner as ever, strapped down in the asylum he hated so much, and bandaged near head to foot. His best friend was on the run with a homicidal maniac, risking arrest or a battle with the Batman at every moment, and maybe killing little children right now. His other friends were as captive as he was, and each mad in their own way. The situation should have been frustrating, but lying there, counting the ceiling tiles, everything seemed right with the world.

_Good luck Harley, _he thought, before drifting off. _I'm sure you'll get caught, but I'll be here for you when you come back._


End file.
